


As We Are

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Adoption, Ancient History, Apologies, Arguing, Assisted Suicide, Autopsies, Banter, Bitterness, Blood and Torture, Brotherly Bonding, Cameos, Caretaking, Childhood Memories, Complicated Relationships, Coping, Cutting, Cybertron, Death Threats, Denial of Feelings, Drinking & Talking, First Patient Lost, Fist Fights, Gift Giving, Good Ideas, Hopeful Ending, Hostage Situations, Implantation, Impregnation, Incrimination, Injury Recovery, Interrogation, Interviews, Intrigue, Major Character Injury, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Military Training, Multi, Mystery, Old Friends, Plans For The Future, Pre-Series, Prisoner of War, Recruitment, Requited Love, Research, Restitution, Security Clearance, Sparklings, Surprise Pairing, Surprises, Survivor Guilt, Training Camp, Violence, simulations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus believed the training of recruits from another base would be simple and concise. After all, the young Autobots are here to learn that he runs his base this way. When trusted officers begin making shocking and critical mistakes, however, the Prime must come to terms with reality: war has never gone according to any plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I must say, I'm really excited about this! Transformers: Prime universe with some of the awesome G1 characters? What could be better?! Just FYI, this story is pre-series, so still on Cybertron - before the crash, before Earth and humans, before all of it. 
> 
> ANY ART LINKS I OFFER DO NOT BELONG TO ME UNLESS I SPECIFICALLY SAY OTHERWISE.

“Are they here yet? You promised to tell me when they got here! Ooh, wait, I see the ship outside! See, right there, Ironhide! Look!”

“Yeh, I see, Blue. It’s been there for a few minutes now. They’re gettin’ settled in their quarters. Prime’s gonna address ’em an’ then they’ll get started.”

“I can’t wait to meet them! I have a feeling they’re gonna be just great, don’t you?”

“I _wish_ I shared your enthusiasm, Bluestreak,” Ironhide sighed, shaking his helm. “But most o’ these Bots are new-mint.”

“All the better, Hide! All that enthusiasm and fresh hope is gonna be really nice to see, y’know, and maybe it’ll cheer up some of the Bots who’ve been kinda down lately! You included,” the sniper muttered the last part under his vents, knitting his fingers behind his back and pacing in front of the large window of the office room. “We’ll need quite a few of those recruits if we want to win this war. Sure, they’ll need training, but that’s why they’re here, isn’t it? Tell me again what’s happening!”

Ironhide leaned further back in his chair and placed his hands behind his helm. “The Bots comin’—we’ve nicknamed ’em Call-Ons—are recruits from Autobot Outpost Kappa Four, along with some of their teachers. They’re supposed to see how the Bots directly under Optimus Prime handle things, so we’re gonna be givin’ ’em exercises: combat training, interrogation simulations, so on an’ so forth.”

“Not only is this going to be good training, this is gonna be _very_ entertaining,” Bluestreak chuckled, turning toward the window and standing on the tips of his feet, studying the ship that had landed outside.

“More encouraging than entertaining, Bluestreak,” a deep timbre spoke from the door. Bluestreak whirled around and instantly snapped a salute. Ironhide, unfortunately slower due to his bulk, scrambled out of his chair and followed suit, mildly embarrassed.

Optimus Prime laughed lightly at his bodyguard’s grimace. “I’ve been looking for you, Ironhide,” he said sternly, humor subtly blunting the edge of his unspoken threat. “And you also, Bluestreak. Your brother has requested that you come to what he calls ‘your usual table’ to greet one of the Call-Ons waiting there.”

“I know one of them?” Bluestreak dropped his salute in his puzzlement. “I don’t think I know anyone over at Kappa Four, so who from that base would even know about that table? I mean, none of them have even been here before—” He straightened suddenly, his optics and mouth widening. “Oooh… _Oh_. Sure, Prime, thank you for telling me. I’m going!”

With that he bolted, narrowly avoiding crashing into the white and orange Bot entering the room.

“By the Allspark! Watch your step, Bluestreak!” Ratchet cried.

“Sorry, Ratchet, I have to hurry!” Bluestreak hollered, looking over his shoulder even as he continued his near-run down the hall. “There’s a thing happening at my usual table that I just have to go and see, so if you’ll excuse I’m gonna go there and see it—I mean, them! It’d be kinda impolite to call someone an ‘it’, y’know? Glad I caught that; I’d hate to do that face-to-face! Prowl would hate it too!” The hasty mech yelped as he cut a corner, stumbled over his feet and smacked one of his doorwings against the wall, catching himself off balance.

Ratchet winced as he heard the following crash but made no move to go to Bluestreak’s aid. He and Optimus shared a knowing look and then Ratchet turned his attention to Ironhide, snorting when he saw his stance.

“With due respect to my old friend here, I don’t think you need to stand that way, Ironhide. You should keep yourself loose or, trust me, your backstrut will lock up.”

Ironhide scowled at the inferred reference to his age but refused to move.

“And your face might lock up that way too,” Ratchet added with a short laugh. Optimus put a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder, stilling him.

“Be kind, Ratchet. Ironhide…at ease.”

“Permission to speak freely, Prime?” Ironhide demanded as soon as he relaxed.

“Permission granted,” Optimus replied cautiously, steeling himself. Sure enough, the volley began.

“Who d’ya think you’re talkin’ to, Ratchet?! I was slaggin’ Cons when you were treatin’ scraped knees!”

Ratchet shrugged off Optimus’ hand, stomped forward and brought himself to his full height, which wasn’t much compared to Ironhide, but his ominous expression could have unsettled anyone. “And wouldn’t your Con-slagging have gone _so_ much better if I had been there to treat the knees that ail _you_ so terribly,” he spat.

There was a long moment of silence as Ironhide processed that. From there he leaned down so his face was mere inches from Ratchet’s unflinching gaze.

“That,” he growled, “was a retort that I can respect.”

Just like that, Ratchet stepped down, his hands held out acquiescently. “I appreciate that.”

Ironhide’s mouth twitched also and Optimus pointedly reminded them of his presence. “If you’ve concluded, we three must join the Call-Ons in the assembly room.”

They entered the vast chamber to find a large group of mechs and femmes, seemingly from many scattered cities across Cybertron, judging by the diverse frames and speeches. All were chattering excitedly, the echo of the room causing it to seem far louder than it was. As soon as the distinctive trio came under the overhead strobe lights, however, someone recognized them and shrieked a warning that rose above all other speech. The Call-Ons reacted immediately, leaping chaotically into a formation line. Complete hush swept over the gathering as many pairs of youthful, anxious optics fastened onto the idols in front of them.

Ironhide groaned under his breath, Ratchet scoffed, and Optimus raised his eyebrows. Leaning down after a series of kliks, he murmured something against Ratchet’s audial that, from outside optics, seemed to surprise him. The Call-Ons were even more astonished when Prime’s medic approached, standing at the left end of the line and folding his arms in a huff. The femme next to him glanced nervously at him, receiving an expressionless gaze in return.

“Welcome to Autobot Outpost Alpha. I am Optimus Prime, though I judge by your expressions that you recognize that,” Optimus began, receiving vigorous nods in return. He waited as his comm. link beeped and then added, “Freedom is the right of every sentient being. These are the officers who work closest with me to ensure this right.” He gestured to the door opening on the opposite side of the assembly room and there was the softest murmur of awe as the mechs filed in. Prime introduced them in turn:

“Prowl is my second-in-command and strategist. Jazz, third-in-command and head of Special Operations. Next to me is Ironhide, my weapons specialist and bodyguard. Next to _you_ , Ratchet, my chief medical officer. Blaster, communications officer, and lastly Red Alert, chief of security.” He gave each of the recruits a moment to memorize the names and then announced, “Some of these officers will be conducting exercises. Some will be taking part in their own, conducted by your teachers. Perhaps we also can learn something from your officers.”

Optimus saw Ratchet’s incredulous expression in his peripheral vision and, just as he’d expected, a familiar call sign appeared in his processor.

:What’s going on, Optimus?:

Optimus gave a minute silencing gesture and accepted a hefty stack of data pads from Red Alert, plodding toward the end of the line and holding one out to Ratchet, who stared at it as though Optimus were offering him a retro rat.

:Please take the pad,: Optimus messaged him. Ratchet did so with obvious reluctance and Optimus moved away from him, handing a pad to each of the recruits. Even when Optimus ran out of data pads, he paced along the line.

“You have been given a training room number and a set of coordinates which reveal where a crucial Autobot attack is to take place,” he continued, pausing mid-pace to put in, “But to upset your composure, I must tell you now: the coordinates are not fabricated. You truly do know the location of the next Autobot strike.”

There were murmurs of surprise and concern from all present. “Be on your guard from now on,” Optimus warned. “The tests to follow are meant to break you and if they succeed, you will be assigned something…very unpleasant by my second-in-command…”

Ironhide snickered a little into his hand.

“…But take comfort in the fact that my _extremely_ straight-faced bodyguard might think to offer a hand of assistance,” Optimus added pointedly, despite the fact that he fought against smiling too. There were a few laughs and Ironhide went rigid, his now unsmiling expression promising he would be complaining to Optimus about that later.

“I believe you’re prepared for this,” Optimus concluded, studying each face as he passed it. “Go to your assigned training rooms.”

As the recruits and the other officers departed, Ratchet approached Optimus, clutching his data pad in both hands. “Can I talk to you?” he asked brusquely.

Optimus gestured for Ironhide to follow as he directed Ratchet closer to the corner with the door. “Of course.”

Ratchet vented deeply, obviously trying to compose himself, but there was still suspicion and irritation present as he started, “Optimus, why am I part of this? I’m not a Call-On and I finished my new-mint-recruit training centuries ago, as you are fully aware.”

“Yours is not the training for a new-mint-recruit,” Optimus explained patiently. “Yours is the new extensive program for those who have been or remain under my supervision.”

“And since you trained me for combat, I suppose I fall under that category?” Ratchet clarified.

“Indeed.”

“It isn’t just because I’m your best friend, then. This isn’t being done to pester me.”

A warning from Ratchet glimmered somewhere in Optimus’ faraway sub-processor. “Not as far as I know,” he answered tactfully.

Regarding the pad, Ratchet skimmed his orders and then started. “Prowl requested this, not you? Why?”

Optimus didn’t have an answer to that as of yet, so he faltered ever so slightly. “I was going to follow Prowl and inquire that of him as soon as you left.”

“Well, don’t bother, Optimus, I’ll tell you why! Apparently being your best friend for centuries isn’t good enough! I must have my loyalty tested for faults like any other science, because obviously I—who have no family but _you_ —could turn to the Decepticons at any moment! Or so Prowl believes!”

“Ratchet, that’s not how it is!” Ironhide tried to protest, but Ratchet cut a hand tersely through the air.

“Very well, I’ll do this fragging exercise. But give me the order, Optimus. I do _not_ want to think I’m doing this for your second-in-command.”

Optimus sighed deeply. “You have your orders.”

Ratchet nodded, shoving the pad into his hands and stomping toward the door before hesitating, turning back and snapping a stringent salute. Then he disappeared.

“You let him get away with that?” Ironhide asked in wonder.

Optimus folded his arms loosely and replied, “As I am his only family, he is mine.”

“Alright, but family’s discipline as well as some mischief,” Ironhide cautioned, putting in quickly, “Not t’overstep my bounds, but it’s true.”

“Indeed. That’s why I gave him the order instead of revoking Prowl’s.”

“But that’s what Ratchet wanted. You gave into him, Prime,” Ironhide protested, but Optimus simply shook his helm.

“Not every family functions the same way, Ironhide, nor does every Bot. There are some battles I cannot win and Ratchet, whether he realizes it or not, is both my greatest pride and my greatest burden. It is a hard balance. My love and bias for him will always be greater than my desire for his deference to me, for it would diminish his very core. I will take him as he is.”

“But others might not,” Ironhide declared. “If you were any other Bot an’ he saluted that way t’you, you’d deck him so fast he’d still be in that stance on the floor.”

Optimus gave him a sideways glance. “ _Now_ you begin to overstep your bounds. Do remember who trained Ratchet for combat; while he is young, no other mech will be able to ‘deck him’.”

Ironhide sobered and ducked his helm. “Sorry, Prime, sir.”

“As I said, he is my greatest pride.” Trying to soften himself, Optimus rested a light hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder. “Ironhide, I do not need an apology through words. Perhaps instead you should consider our upbringing. We were never allowed to speak freely, have our own opinions and do as we pleased. Ratchet and I have fought that system since our sparklinghood. Study Ratchet’s example, because there is a Bot who speaks from his spark, fights for what he believes, and is brave enough to be…quite the satirist when he wants to.”

The message was received, but Ironhide couldn’t help snorting. “Well then, Prime, I just have one question: does it run in the family?”

Optimus smirked and said nothing in reply. At that point there was a knock on the open doorframe and Optimus looked to see Prowl returning from around the corner, accompanied by a green and silver femme. She was well-built, sleek but stockier than most, with piercing emerald-green optics and a grim face.

On instinct Ironhide intercepted, maneuvering himself between Optimus and their two visitors. “Who’s this?” he asked of Prowl.

“One of the Call-Ons, a good friend,” Prowl replied, unfazed by Ironhide’s suspicious tone. “I’ve known her since sparklinghood.”

That still didn’t seem to soothe Ironhide, but Optimus’ hand on his shoulder did. “Easy, Ironhide. Let them pass.”

That he did and the femme approached, dropping her helm in acknowledgment of his rank. “To have the Prime before my optics, _this_ Prime, is a great reward, sir.”

“Your designation?”

“Backscatter, sir.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet any friend of Prowl’s,” Optimus declared, holding out a hand. Backscatter hesitated—off-put by the thought of touching someone so important, Optimus realized with sadness, like all of the others. At last she did take his hand and shook it.

“I was just escorting Backscatter to Interrogation Room #5 and thought it’d be best if she were introduced to you first,” Prowl explained.

Optimus glanced at the data pad still in his other hand. “Room #5…that is where Ratchet’s exercise is to take place.”

“Yes, I’m to assume the role of his interrogator, along with some other trainers who accompanied the recruits here,” Backscatter stated.

Humming thoughtfully, Optimus gestured toward the door. “Ratchet is a steel trap, Backscatter, one which can be difficult to pry open, but I wish you the best of fortune nonetheless.”

Backscatter dipped her helm once more and took Prowl’s arm, surprisingly without any argument from the second-in-command, and the two departed.

“No wonder she’s a friend o’ Prowl’s,” Ironhide muttered as soon as they were out of sight. “Stiffs, the both o’ them—” He stiffened, touching a hand to his audial, and then frowned. “Optimus, I gotta run. Apparently one o’ the Call-On punks wandered onto the weapons range an’ started braggin’ that he could shoot better than Countershift. Called him…what’d he call him?” He listened to the speaker on the other end, his eyebrows lifting toward his chamfron. “Aw, blast. This recruit’s a Winger, turns out. Called Countershift a burnt-out groundpounder an’ started a fight.”

“Attend to it,” Optimus urged. “I think I might oversee Ratchet’s interrogation proceedings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFP Bluestreak Design: [here](http://thewhovianhalfling.deviantart.com/art/Commission-Bluestreak-TFP-style-400866872)  
> TFP Ironhide Design: [here](http://www.deviantart.com/art/TFP-Ironhide-fan-art-270492935)


	2. Chapter 2

A red and purple mech sat at the computer desk just outside the interrogation room. He looked up and drew in his vents sharply as Optimus entered.

“Prime! Sir!”

“At ease,” Optimus replied before the young Bot could try standing for a salute. “Designation?”

“Jawsnap, sir,” the mech stammered, opening his mouth to say more and then closing it quickly, demonstrating his name to Optimus’ amusement.

“Have they finished the set-up?”

“Yes, sir, they’re almost ready. Backscatter’s studying the program chosen and then they’ll bring Ratchet in.”

Optimus watched the femme pace back and forth, fully absorbed in the contents of the pad she held. She certainly seemed to take her job seriously—another sign that she was a friend of Prowl’s. Optimus smiled a little, but it resettled into his usual level expression as Backscatter motioned to someone he couldn’t quite see. When he turned to the computer screens where Jawsnap had tapped into the cameras, he saw from a different angle that there were two larger mechs standing in the dark, holding Ratchet between them. At Backscatter’s gesture, they shoved the medic forward toward the low table in the center of the room, pressuring him onto his knees.

So it began. Backscatter turned a last time, glowering at Ratchet with well-simulated Decepticon hate.

“Well. Cybertron below me, you never told me it was _this_ one.”

Ratchet maintained a guarded expression Optimus recognized quite clearly. Backscatter met the dubious face with her own and then shrugged, tossing away the program pad into the corner, where it cracked against the wall. “He’s got a manifold mouth; this is going to be pretty easy.”

Ratchet’s frown deepened at that, but he didn’t dare bark at her lest it prove her point. Backscatter crossed her arms, circling around the table and her ‘prisoner’.

“What’s your designation and rank, you son of a scrapheap?”

“Designation: Ratchet. Rank: Chief Medical Officer,” Ratchet snapped.

“Alright, so you know a lot about the Autobots and their inner workings. You ever hear any chatter in the med bay? Ever listen in while you’re repairing those rusty slabs in the higher command structure?”

That would include Prowl, Optimus noted distinctly. He doubted Backscatter would have spoken that way if she knew the Prime was standing only next door. Jawsnap peeked tensely up at him, but he was unaffected by the insult. It was simply a simulation. The Decepticons would likely have said far worse things.

“The med bay is gossip in a handbasket,” Backscatter concluded. “You probably hear things traveling up the ranks before Optimus Prime does!”

Ratchet’s jaw twitched very subtly at his friend’s name and Optimus minutely hoped she wouldn’t try to use him against Ratchet. Fortunately, though to his surprise, she didn’t.

“Tell me, where is the next Autobot attack to take place?” Backscatter asked. “What are the coordinates?”

“Designation: Ratchet. Rank: Chief Medical Officer,” Ratchet huffed a second time, almost looking bored. One of the other mock interrogators struck his back and he winced but said nothing more.

“I fail to see the difference between this exercise and the others we’ve conducted,” Optimus commented, glancing at Jawsnap.

“The difference is that…” Jawsnap paused. “To be blunt but with respect, Prime, sir, Backscatter isn’t attached to Ratchet as are the Autobots stationed here. She won’t go easy on him as most in this base might. Sir, we need to be certain as the Pit that a medic like that, one who’s easily memorized the strengths and weaknesses of nearly every recruit, won’t break on the other side.”

Optimus studied the screen where his closest friend knelt and said nothing. Backscatter made another motion to her accomplices and they moved in, crouching on the floor on either side of Ratchet and blocking Optimus’ point of view. He raised himself to his full height, seeing a flash of their hands over Ratchet’s knees but not much else. When the lackeys stood, Optimus could then see that Ratchet’s knees had been secured to the floor.

“For a medic to do his job well,” Backscatter remarked as Ratchet fidgeted, “he must have areas of his sensory net boosted for delicacy, intricacy. Such as the hands, correct?” Here she spun on her heelstruts and seized Ratchet’s right wrist, her fingertips pressing into the edge of his palm. Ratchet blinked a few times, a flinch badly suppressed.

“As _Chief_ Medical Officer, every touch must be a _load_ to your net, eh?” Backscatter pressed. When Ratchet didn’t answer, she began lacing her fingers between his, one by one, causing him to hunch his shoulders anxiously and shiver a little. For the first time Optimus could remember, Backscatter smiled, trailing her other hand along Ratchet’s arm.

“Has anyone ever done this to you? Is it good or is it uncomfortable?”

Ratchet’s throat cables worked but he said nothing intelligible, letting out an uneasy hum instead.

“Uncomfortable from someone you don’t know, then,” Backscatter guessed, bringing his hand down sharply onto the low table in front of him. Ratchet grunted quietly, blinking hard once more with a distressed expression. Backscatter slowly, deliberately flipped his hand palm up and pulled a semicircle cuff from the table’s subspace, locking it around his wrist before repeating the act with his left hand.

“Is this process part of the assigned program?” Optimus questioned.

Jawsnap shrugged somewhat helplessly. “Prowl chose the program, sir, but I must say I don’t recognize this as a method in most of the ones I've seen.”

When Optimus put his concerned optics back to the screen, Backscatter was leaning across the table, her face a foot or so from Ratchet’s.

“What are the attack coordinates?” she grilled patiently.

Ratchet frowned, narrowed his optics and repeated, “Designation—”

Withdrawing a slim knife, Backscatter made a neat slash across Ratchet’s right palm. The medic yipped in shock and pain, his wrist jerking against the cuff.

“Jawsnap,” Optimus started in a warning tone.

“N-No, I don’t think I’ve seen this,” the younger mech stated again, shaking his helm jerkily.

“What are the coordinates?” Backscatter reiterated. Ratchet only pursed his lips, but the interrogator wouldn’t allow for that. Flattening his fingers on the table’s surface, she laid the blade neatly against the joint of his index finger and sliced.

Ratchet released a high-pitched yelp and Optimus whirled toward Jawsnap, commanding, “Get him out of there.”

Jawsnap’s fingers flew over the keys, but the beeping that responded was not the one Optimus had expected. “It—it’s not opening!” Jawsnap exclaimed in disbelief. “Someone’s—Sir, I don't know how but someone has changed the code using an outside source; I can’t open the door!”

“Every time you say no to me, I will incise another of your finger joints,” Backscatter hissed. “Where is the attack?”

Ratchet’s expression was closely bordering panic. “No,” he gasped out, followed by another tormented cry as his middle finger began oozing quickly, adding to the puddle of energon forming beneath his hand.

“Tell me.”

“I will _not_ —Ahh! By the Allspark!” Ratchet rocked back and forth, groaning and trying to curl his fingers in, but one of the assisting mechs moved in and pried them back open.

“One last chance,” Backscatter declared, studying the last finger intact on his energon-stained right hand. “I’ll have my assistants beat you a bit and then we’ll start the process on your other hand. Where is the Autobot attack taking place?”

Agony finely etched into his face, Ratchet stared up at her before slowly bowing his helm and leaning forward, murmuring words near inaudibly. Baring her teeth, Backscatter slashed his finger open, eliciting a very badly stifled scream.

Optimus’ expression was thunderous as he backed down from the door, where he had left an impressive but unhelpful dent in both it and his shoulder. “Find Ironhide’s team, inform them of the means to _extract_ her,” he fumed at Jawsnap as he stormed toward the exit. “And bring me Prowl.”

—

“Prime!”

It took every bit of willpower Optimus had to stop at his title. Turning with clenched fists, he snapped, “What is it?”

Jazz stopped up short at Optimus’ tone. Backing up a step, he held up his hands in a placating manner. “Okay…as far as I know you didn’t reactivate on the wrong side of the berth, so…what’s gotten jammed in your pipes? Should I call Ratchet to take a look at it?”

Optimus shook his helm almost frenziedly. “Ratchet, _Ratchet_ …”

“Does _he_ have somethin’ jammed in his pipes? If that’s it, I don’t know who to call,” Jazz admitted. “Prowler’s _always_ got somethin’—”

“Where is he?” Optimus cut in.

Jazz’s helm tilted and even though he wore a visor, Optimus could imagine his optics scrunching up in confusion behind it. “Who?”

“Prowl!”

Jazz backed up another step, lifting his hands higher. “Last I saw him, he was in rec room 3-C studying the Call-Ons’ files.”

Nodding once, Optimus turned from him but gestured sharply to his side. “Accompany me there.”

Jazz maintained a brisk trot to keep up with him, all jesting gone from his tone as he inquired, “What’s goin’ on, Prime?”

“That, Jazz, is what I am going to ask Prowl.”

As the doors of 3-C slid open, Prowl looked up from the data pads spread across the table in front of him and stood when he saw who was approaching. “Prime, sir,” he greeted. “I just received word that you wanted to see me? I was going to come to your office.”

Optimus ignored him, bending over the table instead. When he found what he was looking for, he held the pad up to Jazz’s nose. “Research her. Dig deep.”

“What am I lookin’ for?” Jazz demanded as he snatched the data from Prime’s fingertips. “Optimus, you’re actin’ jumpier than Red Alert!”

“Summon him,” Optimus put in. “Have him collaborate with Jawsnap. I want footage from Interrogation Room #5. After that, have him assist you in your research.”

Jazz didn’t budge, planting his hands at his waist and insisting, “Tell me what’s goin’ on!”

Optimus shuttered his optics briefly and sighed to calm himself. “Prowl, what can you tell me of Backscatter?”

“Backscatter is one of my oldest friends,” Prowl answered, his surprise evident even as he tried to conceal it. “We were raised in Praxus by close families, but by our third frame transfers we were losing touch. I made an initiative to reconnect with her when Praxus first came under siege and I found out she had taken a position under Fishtail. We’ve kept up communications since then.”

“So you trust her?”

“Of course.” Prowl took on a wary expression then. “As Jazz said, I’d like to be filled in on whatever the situation is, sir.”

“Send Red Alert to Jawsnap,” Optimus repeated to Jazz. “Get the footage. Prowl, come with me. There’s something you need to see immediately.”

—

“I don’t understand, sir,” Prowl announced without taking his optics off the recorded video of the interrogation exercise. “I didn’t order Backscatter to do _this_.”

“What were your orders?” Optimus demanded, looming from across his desk. He was sitting but still managed to be taller than Prowl, who stood in front of him. Red Alert was off to the side, looking nervous as usual.

Prowl didn’t answer immediately, still watching the footage. It ended with the door flying through the air, narrowly missing Backscatter’s helm. She ducked and therefore was taken off guard as Ironhide barreled into her, forcing her arms behind her back and ripping away the knife she held.

“Is there audio, Red Alert?” Prowl asked, bending further toward the screen. “She seems to be saying something.”

“It’s a little hard to make out under Ratchet and Ironhide’s—er, antics, but here it is.” Red Alert rewound and unmuted the footage and despite the warning Optimus and Prowl were taken aback by the cacophony of shouting.

“Countershift!” Ironhide bellowed at the largest member of his team. “How bad is it? How bad is it?!”

Countershift bent over Ratchet’s hands, making the mistake of uncuffing them from the table, for Ratchet immediately pressed them against his chest, unwilling to let them be seen. He was howling in unnerving decibels, making it difficult to catch what Backscatter was saying to Ironhide. As the knife was torn away from her, though, they managed to hear:

“I had my orders! Get Prowl! I had my orders!”

Ironhide shook her and then shoved her against the wall, snarling, “Get recycled, you tricursed, miss-clocked—”

Leaning over, Red Alert stopped the video there. “The rest is Ironhide profaning at her between her entitled rights,” he said apologetically.

“Prowl. What were your orders?” Optimus repeated icily.

For a long moment Prowl continued to stare at the stilled picture until Red Alert impulsively nudged him.

“My orders were Training Program #37,” Prowl answered, finally looking up at the Prime. “But…I gave Backscatter some leniency.”

“What leniency?” Red Alert burst out. “What were your exact words?”

Prowl paused, accessing his neural recording of the conversation. “The best exercise for one of Ratchet’s rank and mindset is #37, but if you want to use a few measures from the programs at your base, Backscatter, you have my permission,” he quoted hollowly.

Optimus sank back down into his chair, his EM field shrinking in dismay. “ _This_ …is happening at her base?”

“As I said, Prime, sir, I don’t understand this,” Prowl repeated, his monotone a tell of how guilty he felt. “Shall I contact Fishtail and inquire?”

Optimus nodded briefly and stood. “Also, summon Pacemaker, Fishtail’s CMO, to meet me at Ratchet’s quarters. Red Alert, take this video to Ironhide and go over the specifics. I’ll have you take Ratchet’s statement as soon as I can.”

“Of course, Optimus,” Red Alert murmured.

Prowl caught his arm as he went for the door. “Optimus,” Prowl entreated quietly. “I…am sorry. I let emotions overcome my judgment and inadvertently allowed my old friend to wound yours.”

Optimus vented slowly and dipped his helm slightly as acknowledgment that he had heard. Knowing he wouldn’t receive anything more until Optimus was ready, Prowl released him and said nothing more as Optimus took his leave.

“Prowl,” Red Alert spoke up, shuffling a little closer. “If you think there’s a…a rational explanation for this, you’d best give it to me.”

Prowl faced him solemnly. “I do believe there’s a rational explanation, Red Alert, I simply don’t know what it is. I plan on inquiring.”

“Backscatter’s in the detention suites,” Red Alert protested. “You won’t be able to ask her unless it’s officially known as an interrogation. If you were as close to her as you say, that might seem like a betrayal. She won’t want to trust any information to you!”

“Who said I was inquiring of her?” Prowl asked simply as he turned on his heel. Red Alert was left standing in Prime’s office, staring worriedly at the city through the backdrop window and wringing his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFP Jazz Design: [here](http://www.deviantart.com/art/TF-Prime-Jazz-344767444)  
> TFP Prowl Design: [here](http://lahteh.deviantart.com/art/Prowl-235095239)  
> TFP Red Alert Design: [here](http://www.deviantart.com/art/Red-Alert-Prime-Bust-382549506)


	3. Chapter 3

“Sir!” Pacemaker saluted as soon as he saw Optimus and remained that way even as the Prime stopped at his feet.

“At ease, my friend,” Optimus ordered, a bit of a sigh in his voice. “I have told you many times you have no need to salute as soon as I am within optic range.”

Pacemaker couldn’t keep his stern face any longer, dropping his arm and smiling widely. “And I have responded just as many times that you’ve never made an order against it, merely suggestions which I ignore.”

Optimus couldn’t help but smile back at him, but it faded a moment later. “Ratchet will likely be glitch-worthily stubborn about this.”

“You’re his friend and his Prime, Optimus,” Pacemaker reminded him. “I’m sure you’ll be able rein him in.”

Saying nothing for or against this idea, Optimus rapped gently on the door of Ratchet’s quarters.

“What?!” a voice barked from inside. “I’m busy!”

“Too busy for an old friend?” Optimus called back.

There was a stiff moment of silence and then Ratchet declared, “ _Much_ too busy for you.”

A bit offended by this statement, Optimus withdrew a small device and fixed it onto the wall to Pacemaker’s left. “Stand back,” he warned in a low voice, punching a button and taking a few steps away. A high whine sounded and then there was a low boom, followed by a rapid series of beeps. They heard Ratchet curse in alarm as the locks on the door disengaged.

“A targeted EMP generator,” Pacemaker exclaimed in delight. “Lovely!”

As soon as the door slid back, Optimus entered and strode toward Ratchet, taking in what was happening in a sweeping glance. Without a word he seized Ratchet’s arms, causing the medic to gasp sharply in pain.

Optimus stared fiercely at Ratchet for a series of seconds they both counted silently. Gentling his touch, though not enough to let Ratchet pull away, Optimus considered his trembling hands. The right was shoddily wrapped in synthetically woven bandages, while the left had them dangling from his thumb only.

Steeling himself, Optimus turned them palms up and shuttered his optics momentarily when he saw the gouges, energon still surfacing from them. He hadn’t known how much more damage Backscatter had inflicted while Ironhide had hunted down the members of his team to blow down the door and detain her. To the sensory net in Ratchet’s hands, this must seem like the worst of tortures.

“Pacemaker,” he beckoned, producing the other medic from outside. Ratchet sighed deeply in aggravation, but Optimus read his humiliation behind it.

“Ooh,” Pacemaker grimaced when he took in the damage but made no cheering quip as Optimus had expected. “Excuse me, sir,” he added, nudging Optimus politely aside so he could take his place. Crouching in front of Ratchet, Pacemaker gently laid his own hands on the CMO’s forearms.

“May I?” he asked gravely.

Optimus almost anticipated Ratchet spitting something at him, but his friend simply hesitated and then gave a curt nod of agreement. Despite the permission, Pacemaker barely touched Ratchet’s hands, brushing over them as though they were made of cybre-glass.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Ratchet blurted suddenly, his voice taut with discomfort and suspicion. Now he seemed to have second thoughts about trusting the other medic. “Optimus said your name is—”

“Pacemaker,” the other Bot confirmed as he unwound the bandages. “And before you ask what it means, I have no idea. I was sparked off world and it’s what my creators named me.”

Optimus had secretly been wondering what the name had meant also. Opening the small file he’d created in his processor, he added ‘off world’ to what he knew.

“I’m from Autobot Outpost Kappa Four,” Pacemaker continued distractedly, focused on his ministrations. “I came with the Call-Ons.”

Ratchet stiffened. “Backscatter is with that group,” he spat, anger causing his field to burn.

Pacemaker glanced up then. “Yes…?”

“She did this to me!” Ratchet hollered, jerking his hands away and biting back a whimper before barking, “She was in charge of the interrogation exercise and she—” Ratchet shuttered his optics in grief that no one should have seen. “— _mutilated_ my hands this way.”

Pacemaker reeled back, almost losing his feet. “I—I know her,” he stammered. “I don’t see how she could—”

“If you’re going to repair my hands, do so, but don’t think I’ll lend any audial or sympathy if you try to protect the one who did this to me,” Ratchet snarled.

“Ratchet,” Optimus admonished without ire. He knew that if he were in Ratchet’s place he would be just as angry, if not more. Pacemaker knew it as well, saying nothing else in Backscatter’s defense as he unwrapped Ratchet’s right hand.

“You didn’t disinfect this, did you?” Pacemaker’s tone was not that of a question.

Ratchet found the floor intriguing at this point, unable to meet anyone’s optics as he murmured, “I couldn’t keep ahold of the tube.”

“Alright.” Rising to his feet, Pacemaker strode where Ratchet guided him and found the aforementioned, unopened tube of antiseptic. When he returned, he cautioned, “This is going to be cold and it’s going to hurt.”

“I know,” Ratchet assured him tensely, looking for all the world like a sparkling feeling alone at a checkup. Optimus, the supporting role of ‘parent’, moved in and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, old friend,” he soothed.

“Say that after it’s been done,” Ratchet pleaded.

Wasting no time, Pacemaker squeezed some of the gel onto his hands and then motioned for Ratchet to surrender his. Reluctantly Ratchet obeyed and Pacemaker vented decisively, pressing their hands together. Ratchet cringed as a strangled cry threw itself out of him. Optimus’ hand tightened on his shoulder, his own sorrow at hearing the helpless noise inescapable.

“I’m sorry,” Pacemaker whispered, looking as forlorn about it as Optimus felt.

“Ugh…” Ratchet attempted to steel himself, but Optimus almost dared to think a sob was lurking in the back of his throat as he forced out, “I’m such a _sparkling_ …I can’t…handle injuries like this while our blessed Bots come back without _limbs_. Or…don’t come back at all.”

“You handle injuries with far more composure than the Decepticons,” Optimus reminded him, rewarded with a faint laugh.

“Yeah. During that battle in Kalis, when Starscream’s heelstruts got shot out from under him, you…you remember how he screamed, Optimus?”

“Indeed,” Optimus confirmed, smiling a little. “Ironhide and Jazz both insist they took that shot.”

“Probably Jazz,” Ratchet panted. “’Hide’s got no tolerance for unconventional shots like that.”

“We’re going to need that antiseptic to sit for a few minutes,” Pacemaker cut in. “Just try not to move them, alright?”

Ratchet sighed quietly, resting his arms on his knees. Optimus, meanwhile, steeled himself.

“Ratchet,” he started gently. “While we wait, would you be willing to give Red Alert a description of what happened?”

When Ratchet looked up at him, his optics were dim and his half-smile cold, as though a Seeker’s wings were passing overhead and throwing them into shadow. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

—

“I’d like you to look past your apparent awe of me, please, and turn your thoughts to Backscatter,” Prowl began, sitting across from the five students at the long meeting table and watching their obvious struggle to obey his order. When they were ready, he folded his hands and questioned, “Designations?”

“Torque Vector,” spoke up a blue and purple mech, looping an arm around the identically-painted femme next to him and adding, “My twin sister, Force Vector.”

“Ah. I’m a twin myself,” Prowl informed them with a small smile. This seemed to put them more at ease and he turned toward the other three. “And you?”

“Drivetrain,” a silver and orange mech declared, folding his arms loosely on the table.

“Aubade,” a small yellow and green femme said, her optics steadier than her tone.

“Clunker,” a red and yellow mech sighed. At Prowl’s raised eyebrows, he amended, “That’s what everyone calls me; it may as well be my name.”

“Very well,” Prowl allowed at last. “I’m meeting with you because you all have something in common: you have trained or continue to train under the officer Backscatter. She’s a personal friend of mine, but I want to know what your opinions are of her. Please, answer honestly and without reservations. I’ll be taking notes on my data pad as you do.”

“Backscatter is a great teacher,” Force Vector said immediately. “She’s very cunning. She definitely knows her way around the weapons and the textbooks.”

“Her way _around_ them?” Prowl repeated slowly. “Does she bend or shortcut the rules?”

“Oh, no,” Force denied the thought. “At least, not that I’ve ever seen. Torque?”

“Not on your life, sir,” her brother agreed fiercely. “Backscatter is a straight-shot. Stern—sometimes a little overbearing, I suppose—but still a straight-shot.”

Prowl’s typing fingers paused and he glanced at what he’d written. “You said overbearing.”

“Sir, I think I know what he means,” Aubade cut in. “Once—and _only_ once—I tried to shortcut an evasive maneuver when we were sparring. She caught me and threw me against the wall, dented my whole lower back. It was my first major injury since I was sworn in, but when she took me to the med bay I saw others had gotten worse from different teachers. By overbearing, I think Backscatter’s just like other teachers. They can be harsh, but they’re doing what needs to be done. It’s what they _all_ do. It’s how we train; we’re used to it and we admire Backscatter, even like her because she doesn’t take it easy on us. It’s good!” She was backed up by a series of fierce nods.

“All teachers treat their students this way,” Prowl murmured, mostly to himself, as he wrote it down, trying to shake the cold feeling lodged in his chest. “Thank you, students. Dismissed; I’ll give Backscatter your regards when I visit her.”

The walk to the custody suite seemed to take vorns. Prowl halted at the fifth cell, at the moment the only one with an occupant. Backscatter met his optics sullenly, her hands clenching in their cuffs. Dismissing the guard, Prowl deactivated the searing energy bars, entered the cell and stood in front of her.

“I asked some of your students of you,” Prowl announced as greeting. “They say…only good things.”

“Did you expect anything different?” Backscatter snapped.

“No…but Prime expects me to inquire not only of your students but of Fishtail about your interrogation methods. I wanted to come to you first so you could explain yourself.”

“You offered me leniency, told me I could use my own methods of training,” Backscatter burst out. “That I did! One of my recruits came to visit me in this can and admitted that he lost the coordinates to Jazz’s request for a _song_! Do you think he would be resilient against the Decepticons?! Our troops need to be trained for what is _going_ to be out there, not their own simple expectations. I needed to throw the medic off his guard. All teachers at my base are harsh with their students—”

“Simply because others do it does _not_ make it right; you know that! You wounded him,” Prowl countered. “You impaired his ability to perform his duty! He can’t hold _a cube of energon_.”

Backscatter sank down on her berth, this news seemingly a surprise for her. “They were cuts. I made him bleed, but even a tavern fight would do that and he would generally be alright the next orn. Were his wounds that serious?” she asked, bewildered.

“For a medic, any injury to their hands is serious.”

Backscatter’s optics trailed down to her cuffed wrists. “I should have known,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have gone so far; your training hasn’t reached the severity mine has.”

“If I didn’t believe this were an apology, I might find it insulting,” Prowl replied with a hint of a smile.

Backscatter smiled back, but it was short-lived as she rose to her feet and approached. “Will I be released?” she asked gravely.

Prowl looked down and off to his right, revealing his answer.

“I know you will try,” Backscatter said to his silence, reaching up to turn his face back toward her. “Because I trust you.”

“I trust _you_ ,” Prowl echoed back softly. “Even in bonds as you are.” Backscatter’s hands moved from his face to his chest and his hand of its own accord landed against the curve of her backstrut, below her doorwings. His spark tingled as his oldest friend shifted into the touch, bringing herself up so their forehelms brushed. So close…but the tingle was not what he thought.

“Prowl?!”

The second-in-command and the prisoner threw themselves away from each other at the voice. When Prowl jerked around, there stood Bluestreak, an expression of utter disbelief contorting his features.

“Bluestreak!” Prowl barked at his brother, as though he had been the one so dangerously close to…With a quick glance at Backscatter’s rueful face, he exited the cell and sealed it behind him, taking off as quickly as he could in bipedal mode. Bluestreak impressively tried to keep up, caring for Prowl’s pride just enough to speak through their spark bond.

_~:Hey, don’t run away! Remember, I feel your guilt, Prowl! I know you’re berating yourself for what you nearly did just now and I also know you’re already working on cutting me off from it and don’t think it’s going to work! To tell you the truth, I had expected you and ’Scat to lock fenders a few frame changes back, but now that I’ve seen it—:~_

Here Prowl performed an about-face, seized Bluestreak’s arm and steered him into the nearest empty conference room, locking the door behind them. After temporarily deactivating the audio on the security camera, he turned on his brother.

“Bluestreak,” Prowl hissed. “Why were you there?!”

“The guard asked me to check on you,” Bluestreak declared, “and I’m certainly glad I did! She was seducing you, Prowl! You could’ve been hurt; she could’ve had some kind of weapon to incapacitate you when you were kissing—a shiv, maybe! She could’ve gotten you in close and then stabbed you right in the spark and escaped; you wouldn’t have known what hit you and then where would I be?!”

“Where would _you_ be?” Prowl repeated, clutching Bluestreak’s shoulders angrily. “You think this is about _you_?!”

“It’s about both of us!” Bluestreak snapped. “Anything that involves you involves me! I _felt_ what you were doing and how much you wanted it to happen. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but when I tried to send you a message I didn’t get anything but more…more…gratification. Prowl, for once in our long lives I’m going to try being you—the regular not-seduced you—and tell you what would have happened if you had kissed her.” Shrugging out of Prowl’s grip, Bluestreak listed aggressively, “Involvement with a prisoner, involvement with a fellow officer, involvement with a _friend_ , compromising a subject’s state of mind, compromising _your_ state of mind—”

“I know the charges!” Prowl shouted.

“So listen to them!” Bluestreak easily matched his tone. “And listen to me! If you know the law so well, you know I have to report this to Prime, Ironhide, Red Alert—”

Prowl punched him at that point, a swift but sturdy blow to the face. Energon trailing down his jaw, Bluestreak staggered into the corner between the door and the wall. For just a moment his optics were filled with pained disbelief, then his expression numbed and he sagged dazedly to the floor.

Prowl stood above him for a short time, triumphant, until he fully comprehended what he’d done. Then he dropped to one knee, fear and worry sweeping away everything else as he tilted Bluestreak’s jaw, inspecting the damage he’d done. It was minor; he would be alright soon enough, but he was still unconscious.

As he shifted around, flattened his doorwings and maneuvered Bluestreak’s arms over them in a pack-strap carry, Prowl was struck with memory of the most famous of history lessons:

The Fallen Prime had betrayed his brothers _for a femme_. Prowl shuttered his optics, one hand hovering over the keypad to unlock the door. Bluestreak may think a punch was a straightforward, perhaps even reasonable reaction to everything he’d said, but Prowl didn’t. Why, then, had he given in to the urge to do it?

A faint groan came from his burden and Prowl exited the conference room, speeding down the hall toward Bluestreak’s quarters. Those he passed could assume from the energon smeared on his brother’s face that he had been drinking and Prowl was dropping him off to his berth. At least the latter was true.

Once he’d laid his brother down and placed a thermal tarp over him, Prowl sat on the edge of the berth and rubbed his chevron wearily. What was happening to him? When had his emotions become so powerful and what could he do about it?

 _Bury them_ , he told himself as Bluestreak started to stir. _Trap them and leave them behind you_. With that thought he leapt to his feet and fled, wishing he could shake the _other_ emotions tumbling through his spark—the worry and sorrow that belonged to his twin.


	4. Chapter 4

“…Ironhide arrested Backscatter and I came here.”

“Not to the medical bay?”

“By the Allspark, of _course_ not, Red! Why would I want inexperienced hands trusted with my own?” Ratchet huffed and corrected himself. “It’s not that they’re inexperienced, just not as experienced as I am. In any case, I came here after it happened. Optimus and Pacemaker—” A nod toward the mentioned mechs. “—arrived not too much later.”

Red Alert looked up from his data pad when Ratchet stopped speaking. “I saw the footage, doctor,” he said. “If I remember correctly, you leaned in and said something to Backscatter before she cut your last finger.”

“Yes, that’s right, sir,” Jawsnap agreed, shuffling a little when Ratchet gave him a sour glance.

“I did say something to her, but I’m not inclined to share,” the medic announced rigidly. “Not in front of _younger_ audials, if you understand.”

Red Alert looked to Jawsnap this time and then nodded decisively. “Very well, Ratchet. Um, I know it’s not exactly what you want to think about, but—”

“Eleven in all,” Ratchet interjected. “An incision for every finger on the right hand, three fingers on the left, and both palms.”

Sighing softly, Red Alert made the notation. “Thank you.”

Instead of acknowledging, Ratchet said grimly, “I’d like to ask _you_ a question.”

Red Alert felt familiar anxiety/suspicion crawl over his plating at the words. “Yes?” he prompted, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Have you performed one of these _tests_?” Ratchet spat the word like poison, staring pointedly to Red Alert’s left at Optimus. The idea that he was the only one suffering this was openly objectionable to him.

“No,” Red Alert admitted. When Ratchet’s optics narrowed, he concluded, “Not yet. Mine is scheduled during everyone else’s recharge cycle—that’s when I work best, you see—but I wanted to record what you had to say before I go and start preparing for the security breach scenario.”

Finally Ratchet relaxed, his stiff stance and cold gaze both melting a bit, no longer aimed at Prime. Red Alert vented in silent relief, but it was short-lived. A knock on the door brought him reeling to his feet, clutching his data pad tightly. Jawsnap latched onto his arm, though to soothe him or in fear with him, Red couldn’t tell.

Pacemaker opened the door and hissed wordlessly.

“Prowl,” Optimus greeted quietly. Ratchet’s greeting was not so quiet.

“What are you doing here?!” he demanded furiously, leaping to his feet.

The second-in-command didn’t look well at all. “I…came to ask your forgiveness,” he murmured, his helm bowed—it seemed almost against his will. “And if I couldn’t receive that, your understanding.”

“This is what I want to understand: why did you order my test?” Ratchet growled, locking his arms against his chest defensively. Prowl ex-vented heavily but had no words. When Ratchet took an ominous step toward him, Optimus moved to intercept, but Pacemaker surprisingly beat him to it.

“Ratchet,” he pleaded in a forced whisper. “Look at him.”

“Oh, I’m looking,” Ratchet assured him, his optics fastened onto the object of his disgust.

“No, really, _look_ at him. What’s wrong with him?”

Ratchet paused, looking Prowl up and down. He was leaning against the doorframe, his hand against his chest as though he were winded. His helm and doorwings seemed to droop a bit lower every few kliks. Sighing crossly, the CMO threw up his bandaged hands.

“Whatever is wrong with him, he’s obviously not in a condition to answer me,” he declared, turning and heading for the backroom. “And since that’s the case, I don’t want him here. Leave, Prowl.”

Prowl looked dismayed in a way Red Alert had never seen on him. Then he did something completely against character: he chose the poorer strategy and pursued the bitter medic.

“Doctor, please, I understand—”

“I don’t think you do!” Ratchet cried. “You’re following me! I made it clear: I want you to leave!”

“I understand that you may not be ready to accept my apology, even though I wasn’t the one who harmed you this way,” Prowl continued as though he hadn’t heard. “I never expected that to happen to you—”

“Now, see, that’s not quite true,” Ratchet spat, whirling around even as he continued backing up. “Your _friend_ and _confidant_ , Backscatter, insisted even while she was being _imprisoned_ that she ‘had her orders’. She mentioned you by name, Prowl! How do you explain that?!”

Prowl stuttered a little. “Yes, I saw that. I realize you feel betrayed. I want you to know that I do too! I would never order her to harm another Autobot; you must realize that!”

“Mustn’t I?” Ratchet mocked. To Red Alert’s horror, Ratchet whirled toward him. “What do you think, Red? For or against him? You’re chief of security, so you surveil everyone. Is he for or against _us_?”

 _Of all the people he could have picked, it had to be me_ , Red Alert frantically cursed his fortune. “I—I do surveil everyone,” he mustered at last. “Everyone, Ratchet. _Everyone_.”

Realization dawned on Ratchet’s face. “You and Prowl,” he gasped at last. “You think I’m a Con?”

“Of course not,” Red Alert tried to backpedal. “We—I mean, Prowl was—”

“He meant to make you stronger,” Jawsnap put in hastily. “So you wouldn’t give in when the Decepticons captured you.”

“ _When?_ ” Ratchet’s voice, most unintentionally, came out as a squeak. “Do you…think I’m that weak?” Anger was the prominent emotion on his face, but to all in the room it was see-through. Red Alert could feel himself visibly cringe when he and everyone else perceived the hurt and the horror behind it as Ratchet turned optics to the one person he still seemed to trust.

“Optimus.” Ratchet fumbled with what he wanted to say. “I am…going to require some time away from the job. Can we discuss how my function will be handled while I’m gone?”

At that, even Optimus seemed at a loss for words. Sadness flickered across his face and then seeped into the cracks. Red Alert again privately praised the Prime, the only one capable of maintaining a composed demeanor as he said, “Of course. Who will you trust with your duties?”

“I trust another CMO with them. I trust them to Pacemaker here,” Ratchet said, gesturing to the other medic, who looked aghast at this news. Red Alert immediately made a notation to look up Pacemaker as a side project to his Backscatter investigation.

“Ratchet, sir, please don’t quit!” Jawsnap pleaded. “You’re the best medic we’ve got! What if, um…what if Prime falls in battle? What then?” Ignoring Ratchet’s pursed lips, Jawsnap continued earnestly, “You know him like no one else, which makes _you_ the best candidate to fix him if something comes up. We need you!”

Ratchet’s anger flared once more and he loomed to his full height and full volume. “Why don’t you give Optimus a _test_? It’ll make him stronger so he won’t fall in the first place!” When no one had a ready response to that, he turned on his heelstrut and stormed into the berthroom, the door sliding closed far too languidly behind him.

After a thick silence, Prowl released all of his vents in a pained hiss, withdrawing into the dark of outdoors. On impulse Red Alert shoved his data pad into Jawsnap’s hands and followed him.

“So…did you get the answers you were looking for earlier?” Red tried nervously after several minutes.

Shaking his helm, Prowl muttered, “I simply worsened the situation. Then I had the brilliant idea of reconciling with Ratchet and solving at least that part of the problem—and worsened it for a second time.”

“You didn’t seem like yourself,” Red Alert commented, taking in Prowl’s interlocked hands held close to his chassis and adding, “You still don’t.”

“It’s just a problem with Bluestreak,” Prowl said. Taking the tone as a warning not to pry, Red Alert didn’t ask, but he still wanted to express empathy.

“It’s a lot of problems to juggle on your own.”

Prowl glanced at him apprehensively. “You manage it. How?”

Laughing humorlessly, Red Alert shook his helm. “You’ve heard the rumors. Everyone thinks I’m half-insane.” He clanged his knuckles against his helm. “Having a logic circuit glitch doesn’t help.”

“You say this to the one with the hiccupping battle computer,” Prowl sympathized.

“Is that why you couldn’t come up with a comeback in that miniature battle we just went through?” Red Alert snarked, regretting it immediately.

“Perhaps,” Prowl answered as though it were a reasonable question. “But of course the only medic I would trust to examine my CPU has taken a leave of absence because of me.”

“Not because of you,” Red Alert argued. “Because of Backscatter.” His step faltered when Prowl glanced at him again and their gazes held.

Red Alert had often been told by Inferno that when something was very, _very_ wrong, he took on a certain look that could divulge it without Red saying a word. He realized now what Inferno was speaking of, for Prowl was wearing just such a look. One of these problems was worse than Prowl wanted to admit, but he didn’t know how to ask for help.

“You want to know how to heft problems on your own?” Red Alert blurted. “I know how.”

Prowl’s optics brightened with undeserved hope. “How? Please, tell me.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Red proclaimed emphatically. “Go to someone you trust and share your problems with them.”

That didn’t seem like the answer Prowl was hoping for. “Thank you,” he said anyway. “I need to go recharge. It’s been a _very_ long day.”

“Ah, before you go,” Red Alert called after him, “I have a problem of my own.” When Prowl glanced over his shoulder, Red gave him a sheepish smile and explained, “I need you to devise a midnight security-breach scenario for me to undertake. Somewhat urgently.”

—

Prowl was exhausted the next morning. He’d spent joors solidifying Red Alert’s lie to Ratchet about having a late-night program to endure and even when Prowl had crawled miserably into his berth, he wasn’t able to recharge. For what had remained of the night, he’d sensed Bluestreak curled up with his back to him on the other side of their bond.

Earlier this morning Prowl had pointedly decided to ignore the disconcerting feeling, seeking after the information Jazz had collected on Backscatter’s past. Much of it he knew, having been there to witness it himself. Some of it surprised him, certain parts even alarmed him, but he gradually realized he would have to accept all of Backscatter’s failures now that she had yesterday’s on her record. He avoided that newly-added section.

Now he sat in one of the rec rooms, leaning his chin against one hand while holding a cube of energon in the other. He stared at the wall for a time he didn’t keep track of, until a pair of hands clamped savagely over his optics.

Prowl was _not_ in the mood to be abducted. He didn’t know how a Decepticon had entered the base, but he was more than ready to join Backscatter in the brig for ripping off the fraggin’ Con’s arms—

“Guess who-o-o-o?” a very familiar voice singsonged.

Prying off the makeshift blindfold belonging to the third-in-command, Prowl snapped, “Jazz, what is it?!”

“What’s with everyone hatin’ on me?” Jazz complained as he came into Prowl’s line of sight and plunked down across from him. “You, Prime, you’ve _all_ got something jammed in your pipes!” Putting on a vicious scowl, Jazz imitated, “‘What is it?!’ That’s harsher on my audials than Shock Pop datatrax!”

Prowl internally kicked himself. He couldn’t afford to alienate another Bot in the higher command structure. “I’m sorry, Jazz.”

The edges of Jazz’s visor fluctuated as he leaned back and studied Prowl with a bit more disbelief. “Wait, wait, wait, did you just… _apologize_?”

“Yes,” Prowl affirmed gloomily. “I didn’t recharge last night.”

Jazz frowned with worry Prowl didn’t feel he deserved. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Is this about what happened with Backscatter?”

For a terrible instant Prowl panicked. Bluestreak, infamous for speaking without thought, had blurted out everything that had happened in the cell—to Jazz of all people. Jazz was almost as bad as Bluestreak. If he wasn’t talking, he was _singing_. It was even rumored that he hummed while in recharge. How could his secret be safe with Jazz?

It may have been Prowl’s charge-deprived CPU, but he had a sudden vision of Jazz singing serenades somewhere in the halls of the base and an unsuspecting Bot asking who he was singing about.

“What do you know?!” he hissed, leaning across the table with his hard-earned, long-perfected interrogation stare. Disappointingly, Jazz didn’t quail beneath it, but he did shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“You were in the room, Prowl. Prime asked me to research her. ‘Dig deep,’ he said.”

“And I’ll ask again: what do you know?” Prowl repeated.

A hesitant smile appeared on Jazz’s face, as though he wondered if he didn’t understand a joke. Setting down his energon cube, he announced, “Well, you’ll be happy to hear, Prowler, that Backscatter checks out. Only smudges on her data screen are a few misdemeanors: simple assault charges. She resigned temporarily and took a six-diun house arrest for all o’ them. Afterward she came back and has completely avoided catchin’ any more novas.” Jazz’s smile waned slightly as he added, “Ah, until this past mornin’. She’ll get aggravated assault for this one.”

Prowl released his vents at length, gripping his energon cube more firmly. “Yes, I know,” he affirmed.

Jazz leaned his elbows on the table between them, sighing, “I _know_ you know, but do you have anything else to say?”

“I don’t see a reason to say anything else.”

“She’s your friend!” Jazz reminded him. “You don’t have any—what’re those personal effects called?” At Prowl’s blank look, Jazz snapped his fingers in mock excitement. “Oh, right! You don’t have any _feelings_ about her being locked up?”

The doors to the rec room parted to let in a couple energon-seekers. Prowl swallowed his reply to Jazz, making sure to keep his gaze centered on the table in front of him. Jazz wouldn’t be so easily quieted.

“Hey, look, Prowl, it’s the Ragin’ Blues!”

“What?” Prowl’s optics narrowed in puzzlement. Now the feeling of misunderstanding a joke was well-placed.

Jazz took on his usual role of exasperated joker, throwing his hands up. “Ragin’ Blues. _Raj_ and _Blues_.” When Prowl showed no signs of understanding, Jazz sighed in exasperation and jumped to his feet, calling emphatically, “Well, if it isn’t _Mirage_ and _Bluestreak_! I’ve been lookin’ for you, my mechs! I gotta tell you the story of how I got one of the Call-Ons to spill the coordinates to me!”

“I’ll be completely willing to listen as soon as I have a glass of medium-grade in my hand,” Mirage replied, his calm, cultured lilt washing over Prowl’s audials. Prowl waited for the earnest, more commonplace agreement of Bluestreak, but there was nothing. Mirage lowered his voice into a softer, more concerned tone. “Bluestreak?”

Prowl lowered his helm a little and Bluestreak took that as incentive to speak. “Uh, yeah, sure, Jazz, I’d love to hear about it. Just let me go get the energon—hey, do you want a fresh cube? I’ll get you one if you need it; what kind do you like? Medium-grade would probably be a good seconder early in the morning! But anyway I’ll get whatever kind you want and Raj’s too—I don’t really need one cos I’m not too hungry—and then you can come sit with us. Is it okay if we use this table behind me cos I’ve always kinda liked sitting over here by the door instead in this deep, dark corner where you’ve been sitting till we came in just now?”

“O’course, Bluestreak, that’s groovy!” Prowl could hear in Jazz’s tone that he had caught perhaps less than half of what Bluestreak had said, but Jazz wouldn’t risk insulting Bluestreak by asking him to repeat himself.

 _While I, his spark-split twin,_ punched _him in the_ face _. What in the Allspark does that say of me?!_ Prowl shuttered his optics. He knew that tone of voice; Bluestreak was _afraid_. The urge to leap to his feet and attack Bluestreak with an inescapable hug was nearly unbearable, but the last time Prowl had approached him, it hadn’t gone too well.

Would ignoring Bluestreak exacerbate their problem?

Prowl remembered Red Alert’s words from the night previous: _“Go to someone you trust and share your problems with them.”_ Bluestreak may speak without thinking, he may be reckless with his life and the only reason he was here may be for revenge…but there was almost no one Prowl trusted more. He stood and went for the doors, unable to face the trust he’d broken. Jazz frowned deeply as he left, and though his smile quickly returned when Bluestreak called for his attention, there was still dissatisfaction behind it. _I guess the plan is gonna be harder than I thought._


	5. Chapter 5

“My Call-On was a scrawny sort o’ thing, obviously really anxious despite how awesome and nice I am,” Jazz was narrating animatedly. “So I started not bein’ so nice. I walked around him a few times to make him jumpy and then when I was across from him again, y’know what I did?”

Jazz could tell Mirage was only half-listening, but out of courtesy he took the bait. “No, we don’t. What did you do?”

“I asked him for a song,” Jazz proclaimed, smiling sweetly.

“A song?” Bluestreak repeated in puzzlement. “What d’you mean, a song, Jazz? You were supposed to get the coordinates, right? So why a song?”

“Oh, I got the coordinates!” Jazz puffed up with pride. “Cos then when he was all confused, I put on a really nasty face and leapt across the table at him, screamin’ at him to give me a song right now or so help me…He said ’em faster than _you_ might, Blue!”

“That’s an interesting method,” Mirage commented.

“Yeah. The poor kid looked so horrified that I went easy on him and we started the whole test over so he could be prepared. O’course, then I pulled a different method out of a completely different rulebook. Your brother’s.” Jazz stared at Bluestreak pointedly, gauging his reaction to how his voice had changed, more to encouraging something than hoping for feedback. To Jazz’s immense worry, there didn’t seem to be one. The Praxian maintained an unflappable expression.

“Well, I’m glad his methods helped you.”

When Bluestreak serenely sipped at his energon and said nothing else, Jazz privately wondered if he’d made a mistake and mixed up the brothers in his CPU. In any case, the damage was looking worse than he’d first believed. Externally he mumbled, “Um…thanks. I gotta go make some appointments now, sorry to go.” He rose and made to scoot away from the table before considering. “Hey, Raj, you wouldn’t mind comin’ with me, would you? It’s a lonely walk, y’know.”

Mirage looked surprised but nodded. “Very well. If you’ll excuse me, Bluestreak.”

Jazz felt a little guilty as he went for the doors, glancing over his shoulder to see poor Blue hunched over his energon cube, drooping forlornly as Prowl had earlier. _They’re_ so _much more similar than they seem to think_ , Jazz mused, feeling like he wanted to droop too at the thought of them isolating each other. Fortunately, Mirage distracted him.

“Besides Prime, you’re likely to be the most respected and beloved officer, Jazz. Anyone would be happy to join you on your ‘lonely walk’.”

“So you’re happy to?” Jazz countered. Mirage looked a little taken aback.

“I—I suppose. Of course.”

“Those’re two very different songs,” Jazz pointed out. “No, I didn’t ask you to come cos I was lonely, although it _is_ a long walk to my office. I asked you to come because I need your help.” At Mirage’s slightly distasteful expression, Jazz scowled. “I _can_ ask someone else!”

“I suggest you do,” Mirage agreed. “I have more pressing matters to handle at the moment.” With that he turned and began striding down the hall away from Jazz.

“Hold up!” Jazz hollered, speeding after him with a sense of déjà vu. Whether Mirage realized it or not, he went at a brisk, assertive pace much like that of Optimus. Making a small note of that in a subfolder, Jazz swiped at his shoulder. “Mirage, unless that energon was spoilt and did somethin’ to your memory, you should remember that I’m the third-in-command—not only that, but I’m the leader of Special Ops., _your_ division! In that capacity, I’m sayin’ that your pressin’ matters will have to press for a little longer. You just gotta help me with my ROCK!”

“Your music doesn’t have appeal to me,” Mirage answered, but he did slow a little at the threat of rank.

Jazz caught up, waving his hands through the air as though to erase Mirage’s words. “No, no, no. Rock, R-O-C-K: it’s my Rescue of Connateness Kickoff.”

Jazz was pretty sure that if Mirage were to be completely honest, the only two reasons he kept listening was because Jazz was a commanding officer and because he was impressed that the word ‘connateness’ was in Jazz’s vocabulary. _Knew that one would catch his attention_ , Jazz congratulated himself.

“Tell me more,” Mirage prompted.

“How’d Bluestreak rope you into comin’ to the rec room?” Jazz asked instead.

“He said you sent him a message requesting that he join you there,” Mirage replied warily. “I thought it was quite kind of him to invite me along.”

Jazz smiled warmly for a klik or two. “Yeh, that’s Bluesy. He won’t let someone be alone unnecessarily.” Like a flipped switch, the smile vanished. “Except himself.”

“Don’t be enigmatic,” Mirage sighed. “What are you talking about?”

“He and Prowl had a fallin’ out,” Jazz declared. “If you’re wonderin’ how I know, Red Alert told me earlier this mornin’ that he and Prowl met up last night. Prowler was lookin’ pretty rundown and when Red asked him about it, he said it was a problem with Bluestreak. He also admitted that after Prowl left for recharge—he didn’t get any, by the way—Red looked up security footage from every camera on the base lookin’ to see where they went wrong yesterday. He found it, but it showed Prowl turnin’ off the audio before arguin’ with his bro.”

“Why didn’t they simply speak with their spark bond if they didn’t want to be heard?” Mirage questioned.

Jazz shrugged helplessly. “Dunno. Maybe they were too angry to keep it quiet? All I know is they decided that actions speak louder than words; it ended with a one-sided scrap. Prowl knocked him clean out with one punch and then carried him off. Anyway, I asked Red to let me know when Prowl went for energon today. When he did, I sent Bluestreak the invitation to come and then stalled Prowl until you came. Got ’em in a room together, but obviously it didn’t get any further.” Sighing, the TIC concluded, “I was wonderin’ if you’d be willin’ to stick with Blue for a while. Maybe he’d confess somethin’ to you?”

“It was just a cube or two of energon, Jazz,” Mirage protested. “We don’t know each other that well. If he doesn’t trust his twin right now, what makes you think he’ll trust me?”

“Cos you’re both lone wolves, both on the rims! Most Bots don’t like Blue because they think his mouth drives a billion times faster than his processor,” Jazz stated, snapping his own mouth shut before he could go on, but already he’d said too much.

“And most Bots don’t like _me_ because they think I’m an egotistical, bombastic, overconfident Towersmech,” Mirage growled, his optics flashing.

“I’m not most Bots,” Jazz put in quickly. “I want your help, Mirage. You’re one o’ my best Special Ops. mechs and…this is situation with them is really worryin’ me. I mean, _really_. We can’t afford to have the SIC at anythin’ less than his best, much less stumblin’ around runnin’ into things cos his helm’s hangin’ too low with guilt to see!”

“Very well,” Mirage said at length. “I’ll help you.”

Jazz ex-vented in relief. “Thanks, Raj. I really appreciate it.” With that he made to put a hand on his compatriot’s shoulder, but he could no longer see the shoulder on which he would have placed it.

—

Mirage wove his way through the halls of the base, smoothly gliding past situations that could unveil his cloaked presence. Despite—or perhaps _because_ of what Jazz had told him, Mirage had decided it was now time to deal with his pressing matters.

He had managed to catch a glance of the scheduled arrival roster and had memorized the arrival time of his objective: the commander of the Call-Ons base, a mech by the name of Fishtail. Prowl had summoned him yesterday (on orders from Prime), for what was rumored to be an evaluation. If ‘evaluation’ meant an all-too-real interrogation of his activities for/with/about Backscatter, Mirage wanted to get to him first. He’d known Fishtail for a good chunk of a vorn, well enough that if Fishtail _was_ involved in some sort of foul play with Backscatter, an officer in his face surely wouldn’t gain any answers.

Mirage planted himself in a safe vantage point in the hangar bay, watching the small shuttle land. The door of the pod barely opened fast enough for the sleek alt. mode that burst violently from inside. Even as he felt familiar affection toward his vorn-long friend, Mirage couldn’t help but wince as he watched the maroon-and-silver blur that was Fishtail live up to his designation, grinding his lovely Towersmech tires nearly to shreds as he struggled to avoid colliding with the hangar bay wall.

Apparently command had only heightened Fishtail’s sense of urgency to get where he was going.

Fishtail stood somewhat shakily, reaching out to the wall to regain his balance even while giving a charming smile in response to the astonished stares he was receiving. “Apologies,” he called to a particularly startled mech. “By the way, would any of you happen to know the way to the custody suite?”

Once he was given directions, Fishtail sent a more repentant glance toward the alarmed mech and then went on his way. Shaking his helm in wonder, Mirage tailed him closely. He narrowly avoided running into Fishtail on several occasions when the commander stopped to say hello to anyone he recognized. Still, that sort of risk was, to Mirage, exactly what made cloaking technology so delightfully fun. He nearly laughed at the rush of excitement he got when scurrying through a door just as it was closing.

When had he last used his cloaking tech for fun? Mirage couldn’t quite recall, but this particular situation reminded him of his childlike rush of adrenaline as he’d secreted himself somewhere in his creators’ berthroom to eavesdrop on their plans for his creation day party. They were always the grandest of things, due to his family’s nobility, but then a hand would come closing down on him and would gently tug him out of his hiding place. Then he would find out they’d known he was there all along.

“Will you still do the things you said?” he pleaded without fail.

“Nothing could be so delightful as that,” his Carrier would reply, tsking softly. Mirage would sigh sadly and then Mystique would smile and squeeze his shoulders, adding, “But rest assured that what we have planned will be fairly close.”

His creators had been uncannily successful in catching him when he was cloaked, the adult Mirage mused. Although, there were a few whispers that Red Alert was working on spectrum tech that could detect him—

Mirage returned to his current predicament abruptly, barely biting back a yelp when his heelstrut got wedged in the door to the custody suites. Fishtail turned around in surprise and Mirage yanked his foot out quickly, letting the door close normally.

“Weird glitches,” Fishtail mused aloud, but he was outspoken by another voice.

“Commander!”

“Officer,” Fishtail returned, his voice more solemn than Mirage remembered it even when they had been in moments of crisis. Maybe he didn’t remember Fishtail as well as he believed…This idea worried him as he limped noiselessly down the hall behind Fishtail toward where Backscatter was waiting behind the energy bars.

“How are you?” Fishtail inquired, setting off a fairly mundane exchange of pleasantries which disappointed Mirage, who’d hoped for some type of more substantial evidence in his friend’s favor…until Fishtail, conveniently positioned with his back to the security cameras, unhurriedly crossed his arms, flipped a tiny remote into his palm and pressed a single button.

Mirage arched, pressing his hands against his audials as his disrupted EM field fluctuated. For a few kliks he panicked, thinking he might have been visible, but Fishtail and Backscatter were entirely taken up with staring at each other. Forcing the dread of discovery aside, Mirage focused on the fierce, throbbing buzz in his audials.

When the static finally began to fade, Mirage just managed to catch Fishtail hissing, “…garbled on the security cams. They’ll think it’s a glitch, but in any case they won’t be able to decipher our conversation, so just smile naturally and speak freely with me, ’Scat. What in the Pits happened here that they asked me to come?!”

Backscatter obeyed the order and smiled even as she said, “It wasn’t my fraggin’ _fault_ , Fishtail. You know how we train our recruits; Prime’s people weren’t prepared for it.”

Fishtail scoffed. “If anyone would be prepared for it, it’d be Prime and his officers! Didn’t you say Prowl was here?!”

Even as her smile widened, Backscatter ducked her helm a little and Mirage edged closer, sensing that this could be important.

“Backscatter,” Fishtail said in a warning tone. “What did you do?”

“It’s what I almost did that could mean something,” Backscatter admitted. “Or rather, what _we_ almost did.”

Fishtail and Mirage both drew the same conclusion at once. “Officer!” Fishtail gasped. “You didn’t consider _bonding_ , did you?!”

Mirage felt a wave of nausea crawl over him. He hated violence in itself well enough, but this particular committer of violence had wounded the closest friend of the Prime himself. The way Ironhide had described it had riled everyone up further in defense of their CMO. Half of the tenants of this base wanted to rip out Backscatter’s spark with bare hands and yet she had gotten away with romantically engaging the spark of the mech second _only_ to Prime? The concept was thoroughly disturbing.

“It was a kiss, nothing so serious as bonding,” Backscatter soothed Mirage’s fears, only to bring them roaring back when she smiled again thoughtfully and added, “Although, with Prowl, everything is serious. Perhaps it would have led to more dedication, but…Well, you were a sparkmate once, Fishtail. You know taking hold of a spark is difficult, but it’s even more so when the spark is split between two brothers. When Bluestreak arrived, things got more complicated.”

 _That must have been what they were arguing about_ , Mirage realized. _Some twins don’t like ‘loaning’ half of their life force to someone who isn’t kin!_

“Give me a full report of what happened,” Fishtail ordered sternly. Backscatter shrugged, all too comfortable with describing what had happened between her and Prowl. Mirage almost wished the static in his audials had remained. What she was describing sounded so unlike Prowl! What kind of hold did this femme have over him, and did all of his ‘close friends’ have the same type of hold?

When Backscatter had finished, Fishtail sighed and shook his head. “Very well, Backscatter. Thank you for being…forthright with me.”

Backscatter eyed him critically. “You don’t look very thankful.”

“I just don’t know how to clean up this mess you made with Ratchet while keeping Prowl’s secret—or at the very least, sparing his pride,” Fishtail confessed.

Mirage mulled that over. That didn’t sound like someone involved in a conspiracy against Prime and his officers. That was a blessing to Mirage, if he wanted to admit it. Fishtail was a good mech and Mirage had hoped against hope that he wasn’t a conspirator of any kind, even if his officers were.

But despite what he’d heard, Mirage wasn’t entirely sure Backscatter was a conspirator either. She had, of course, gone way too far with the interrogation simulation, but she truly did seem to care about Prowl even if she wasn’t too fond of his twin. A Decepticon would hate both of them for being such contributors toward the Cons’ downfall.

“I’m going to post your bail,” Fishtail announced. “Until I discuss what should happen about the medic with Optimus, stay out of trouble. And avoid Prowl at all costs, will you?”

Backscatter laughed lightly. “He’ll do all the avoiding for me.”

Fishtail said nothing in reply, heading for the door. Mirage followed, glancing minutely at the security cameras and wondering worriedly if their audio was still blocked.

Red Alert met Mirage’s distorted gaze through the screen. He pondered capturing Raj somewhere on his route and demanding he tell what Fishtail and Backscatter had discussed, but then he decided against it. Mirage didn’t need help; in fact, he might feel burdened by an offer of it. With the aid of his newly installed spectrum tech, he could track Mirage on his journey and see where whatever he had learned would lead him.


	6. Chapter 6

Ironhide stood ramrod straight at the office wall to Optimus’ right, weapon powered and close to his hand, comm. unit with the volume down but open in case of an alert, and his optics fixed on his charge. He was doing everything right…and yet he couldn’t help feeling a sting of helpless failure as he stared at Optimus so intently.

Because no one seemed to know the entire story, yesterday’s situation had everyone confused, somewhat bumbling and very much on edge. Apparently Optimus was no exception. For a while he tried to refuel, but eventually pushed it away in distaste. After that he sank down at his desk and shuffled through some data pads, but from Ironhide’s point of view, the way Optimus’ optics moved was repetitive, meaning he was reading the same sentence over and over again. Finally the Prime tossed the pad into a drawer and pressed a hand over his optics. That was how he remained at the moment, looking altogether…nauseated.

Ironhide had wanted to say something in particular since he’d first met Optimus this morning, but it was only now that he found he had the nerve. He said his name and Optimus startled, but Ironhide ignored it and rushed:

“You’re frettin’, Prime, and d’ya think that’s gonna help? If ya tell me whatever you’re holdin’ back, maybe I could help.”

Optimus was silent for a long moment and then he let his hand slide down his face until it thumped on the desk in front of him. “They’re all failing, Ironhide,” he murmured. “The recruits. What happened to Ratchet seems to have…dragged them all down. The rest of the officers are saying that they’ve heard the coordinates so many times they’re considering redirecting the attack to a different city just so they can hear something new.”

“Sarcastically, o’course,” Ironhide tried to brush it off.

“Nonetheless, I’m concerned about morale,” Optimus sighed.

“What else?” Ironhide prompted.

“I’m concerned about Prowl. And Ratchet,” Optimus finally confessed, knitting his fingers together and leaning his chin against them. “We can’t afford dissention in our higher ranks, not at this stage of the war, and yet Ratchet refuses to even look at Prowl. You weren’t there for it, Ironhide, but Prowl visited Ratchet’s quarters, insistent on asking for forgiveness…and Ratchet was without mercy. He wouldn’t even hear of it; he was too fixated on demanding answers and yet he almost seemed averted to letting Prowl speak at all. Everything has been expanded far out of proportion.”

Ironhide rolled this new information over in his CPU and then asked, “May I be dismissed for a little while? You can take care of yourself for that, right? It’d be a breem at the most.”

Optimus glanced up at him in surprise. It was rare that Ironhide asked so politely and they both knew it, so Optimus nodded wordless consent and Ironhide smiled briefly at him before going on his way. As soon as he was out of Prime’s sight, Ironhide’s face darkened and his meander became more of a storm.

For about three minutes Ratchet didn’t answer the pounding on his door, but when he did, he narrowly dodged Ironhide’s fist swinging at him.

“By the Allspark,” Ratchet mumbled, his voice somewhat slurred as though he were either a little overcharged or he had just come out of recharging. “Ironhide, what’re you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” Ironhide declared, shouldering past to stand in the middle of Ratchet’s quarters with huge arms crossed authoritatively. That seemed to rouse Ratchet a bit.

“About what, Ironhide?”

Despite his aggravation, Prime’s bodyguard couldn’t help looking Prime’s medic over just to make sure he seemed decent. Aside from the way his hands were folded, a way that would inhibit much damage coming to them should any danger arise, he seemed alright. Ironhide didn’t know why, but this only aggravated him further.

“About you,” he answered at last, his voice firm. “You need t’come back ASAP.”

Ratchet frowned a little. “I don’t know if you were told, but I’m taking leave.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ironhide snapped. “You should see the trail o’ destruction you set off. All the Call-Ons’re failin’ the tests.”

“Why, did someone harm them too?” Ratchet muttered.

“Yeh, _you_ did!”

“I’m not following,” Ratchet shot back.

Ironhide could visualize hackles rising as Ratchet spoke; he was starting to get defensive. Not the way Ironhide wanted to take him, but he was here already so fraggit, who cared? _Let’s see who can outfight the other_ , Ironhide decided. _It’s a seriously good thing Optimus doesn’t know I’m doin’ this. He thought I was oversteppin’ my bounds_ then _? Huh_.

“Are you too traumatized to remember what happened when we first entered the assembly room?” Ironhide tried. “The Call-Ons, they’re in as much awe of me an’ you as they are of Prime! Everyone’s so jumpy about what happened to you that they can’t focus on what they’re supposed to be doin’! It’s affectin’ everyone, Ratchet, even the other officers! I dunno what you did to deserve so much love an’ attention—I’m _certain_ they wouldn’t be like this if it were someone like me—but it’s like a disease. You need to get back out there an’ cure it. Reassure everyone that you’re perfectly fine so they can do their duties!”

“Who says I’m fine?” Ratchet countered. Realizing a klik later that the words could be seen as admitting he was weak, he amended, “I do plan on returning. I’m just waiting until this heals.”

“Listen t’me,” Ironhide commanded, advancing and seizing the surprised medic’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “We’re all damaged. This is _war_ ; we’ve _all_ been victimized by someone or another and you can’t tell me it’s not true. You have the power to turn everyone upside down an’ shake ’em till they’re purgin’ up an’ down a stairwell an’ you _also_ have the power to set ’em right again!”

Ratchet thrashed his arms a few times in a futile attempt to break free of Ironhide’s grip. “Let me go,” he growled. Ironhide could feel every joint cable in Ratchet’s upper body lashing defensively and he very nearly obeyed and released him. (The threat of surgical blades did still exist, even if it would hurt Ratchet like nothing else to transform his hands.) Ironhide resisted the urge to withdraw and continued harshly.

“You, sir, are an officer an’ you have a duty to do the latter of the two options I gave you. There’s no third option; there’s no runnin’ away. You’re doin’ exactly the opposite of what you swore to an’ you’re causin’ them harm. Did you hear me? You’re _harmin’_ them! Bite the blaster barrel an’ perform your function like normal so everyone else can!”

“Their duties don’t depend solely on me!” Ratchet yelled fiercely. “And since when it is a terrible war crime to take some time away after a trauma?!”

Ironhide hissed in frustration. “It’s not, it’s not. There’s an appropriate time for that because there’s definitely some stuff that happens to us that really is just untimely and does us all in for a bit.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” Ratchet agreed, finally wriggling at just the right angle to pry himself loose. “So now that we agree, will you please leave?”

Ironhide couldn’t help it; he openly gaped at him. The nerve of this mech was frankly astounding. For a klik or two he started to sputter useless syllables…until he remembered who he was talking to. This was Ratchet. He had a strong sense of duty, but it was nowhere near as strong as his sense of emotion. Ironhide had been told by some that his own ‘reaction guage’ was faulty, cranked far too high. There was a high chance that Ratchet’s was too. Maybe Ratchet was constantly on the defensive because he bore emotion for _two_ —himself and…

“Ratchet,” Ironhide began at last through teeth set edge on edge. “You weren’t there to hear it, but I was recently told by someone that there’re times when different families don’t function the same way. Can we agree on that?”

“Of course,” Ratchet replied cautiously.

“That same mech also said that you were someone I ought to study, someone I ought to look to for an’ example of how we should be. He said that _you_ —of all the people he’s ever met an’ gotten close to—were his greatest pride. An’ his greatest burden. You’re bein’ more the burden at this point.”

“Well, that’s insulting,” Ratchet muttered.

“It should be upsettin’ to you! This mech, he said you were a fighter—a satirist sometimes, but still a fighter—an’ that goin’ all soft an’ meek for someone would, I quote, ‘diminish your very core’. D’ya want to know who said that?”

“I’m not entirely sure—”

“It was our Prime,” Ironhide burst out. “Have you stopped to consider what takin’ leave an’ hidin’ yourself in your room all day has done to Optimus?!”

Ironhide had heard rumors of other species that had the capability of paling when in great worry or fear. If Cybertronians had been capable of it, he would bet credits Ratchet would have done it now. The imaginary hackles flattened and his voice could have belonged to an entirely different mech as he questioned apprehensively, “What _has_ it done to Optimus?”

 _Annnnd…gotcha,_ Ironhide cheered mentally. “He’s real restless,” he explained, soaking his vocalizer in defeat and sadness that wasn’t all fabricated. “Movin’ all over the place like he doesn’t quite know what t’do with himself. He wouldn’t drink his energon. Earlier he was goin’ through these data pads an’ I’m pretty sure he read the same sentence at least eight times.”

 _More like three_ , he scolded himself gleefully in his processor. He was enjoying this too much, but too late now. Ratchet was drinking it in like a Syk-addict; he might as well go all out with the drama.

“He’s been gettin’ helm-aches; the last time I saw him, he just kinda kept his hand flat over his optics like it hurt t’look at anythin’ he had t’do. He didn’t even say a word when I asked for a break, he just barely nodded.”

“And you _left_ him in that condition? Without supervision?!” Ratchet cried, his voice so high with dismay it was almost a wail.

Ironhide couldn’t resist throwing in a jab. Even Ratchet didn’t notice it, it was for his own enjoyment as he put on a very disturbed face and whispered, “Should I…Should I…call Pacemaker?”

“No!” Ratchet barked. “ _I’m_ going!”

 _I gotcha, I gotcha!_ Ironhide singsonged mutely as he watched Prime’s medic depart with a resolve that he himself found quite refreshing.

—

It was a very dangerous and only slightly less _stupid_ play, Mirage realized as he pressed his back against the wall and tried not to vent too deeply lest the noise set off a search for his cloaked form. Fishtail may assume a pausing door was a glitch, while his creators would definitely realize it was him. Judging by the condition he was in at the moment, Prowl could go either way.

As far as Mirage could evaluate while not knowing Prowl very well, his condition was not a good one. The SIC was sitting on the edge of his desk—one of his very own personal vexations when seeing it in others—and drumming his fingers impulsively on his legs. Contrary to his other twitchy movements, his optics were somewhat glassy as he stared unblinking at Pacemaker and Jawsnap, who stood in front of him taking turns talking.

“Simply diving helm-first into interrogations can send some of the rawer recruits off-kilter—at least, that was Prime’s opinion, sir,” Jawsnap was saying. “So he had us devise a new program where they received weapons training first. A while on the shooting range can sort of cement the skills they’ve been practicing back at their base. Again, Prime’s opinion, sir. Do you…have anything to add?”

“No, nothing,” Prowl brushed off the question hastily. “Don’t feel the need to keep explaining, Jawsnap, I’m sure Optimus’ plan is sound. After all, even with Decepticons, the hunt comes before the capture, yes? Of course we would all know that, but those who have never been on the battlefield wouldn’t. Optimus understands the feelings of the recruits—not that he’s inexperienced as they are, but he would have likely heard by now the emotions conveyed by Ratchet…” He trailed off, his optics flickering down for a moment before they snapped back up. “I’m sorry, was there something else?”

“I…need my medical duty roster,” Pacemaker admitted, startled when the pad was tossed to him like it was the object of a Lobbing game.

“Now you have it,” Prowl announced, smiling thinly.

Pacemaker decided to open the file and scan it there in Prowl’s office, commenting, “There’s something wrong with this, I think.”

“What are you talking about? I wrote it up myself,” Prowl retorted sharply. Recognizing that timbre, Jawsnap tugged at Pacemaker’s elbow but the Call-On CMO ignored him.

“Well, sir, I’m fairly sure one of the junior medics said there was a scheduled examination—one that seems to be cancelled here. An examination of the prisoner, to make sure the arresting officer wasn’t rough enough that the prisoner could take legal action.”

“Backscatter, not ‘the prisoner’,” Prowl corrected severely. Mirage noted with great unease that his fingers were nearly a blur against his knees. Jawsnap saw it too and again clutched at Pacemaker’s elbow, trying to tug him toward the door. Pacemaker resisted.

“I don’t like calling her ‘the prisoner’,” Pacemaker admitted. “She’s my friend just like she’s yours, but I thought since _you_ prefer to be impartial when it comes to crimes, you would want me to be that way—”

“Conduct the examination if you must,” Prowl cut in. “But don’t let her speak to you other than to tell you where it hurts.”

Pacemaker blinked in surprise. “I don’t know if I can keep someone from talking—”

“Obviously,” Prowl interrupted once more. “But you must find a way. Dismissed.”

Pacemaker wiped his face clean of any hurt at the insult and allowed Jawsnap to guide him away from the apparently cantankerous officer. Once the doors slid closed, Prowl’s doorwings twitched violently and he leapt to his feet.

“Why are you here?” he snarled.

Mirage’s mouth opened in disbelief. He had been so careful and it had been fruitless! What a poor demonstration of how his infiltration skills had matured since sparklinghood! If he was forced to, he did have the option to throw Jazz under the pod, saying he was here under orders—

“Why are you risking your reputation simply for the momentary pleasure of insulting someone?” Prowl’s query caused Mirage to hesitate when reaching for the uncloaking buttons. Prowl…talked to himself? Interesting.

“It was satisfying, though. At least it got him to shut up,” Prowl sighed, starting to pace as he muttered, “But how long his silence will last, you don’t know. He could complain to Optimus and you could get a reprimand. The whispers about it would be endless!” As he turned on his heel, Prowl continued thoughtfully, “Although, they don’t know me. They could simply assume that’s how I’m characterized. But…I’m not! Why didn’t I want to hear what they had to say? Simply because I don’t know them. I don’t want to hear one-sided discussions by people I don’t know about things I’m not interested in!”

Mirage observed with an odd trinity of fascination, horror, and amusement as Prowl conducted his own one-sided discussion.

“But it’s my job to know them,” Prowl gasped as he returned from the wall furthest from Mirage. “Why don’t I know them? You can’t blame yourself for that; there’s no reason to know them,” he comforted himself as he left the wall closest. “Other than that Jawsnap works with Red Alert. And Pacemaker with Backscatter. Both _very_ good reasons to know them! No, Red would have to trust Jawsnap to work with him, so he’s most likely safe. Ha! Who are you to be making judgements of character? You believed Backscatter was an Autobot. She _is_! Of course she is. But how to be sure without having been with her all this time? She could have been turned—or made into a sleeper agent. You obviously can’t ask Pacemaker, who you insulted. It was a _crude_ insult too, barely worthy of you.”

Prowl stopped in the center between the two walls, staring at the floor. “I should have talked to Bluestreak,” he lamented. “But he didn’t want to talk and neither did I. Wait…why do I want to talk now? Why _am_ I talking now? What’s wrong with me?!” Prowl’s floored stare readjusted toward his chest and he laid a hand over his Autobot sigil, whispering, “What have you given to me?”

Mirage was puzzled for a moment before drawing the connection. He was talking to Bluestreak, though by the distressed expression Prowl wore it didn’t seem like he was getting a response of any kind. At Jazz’s mention of Prowl, Bluestreak had answered with a total of seven words, while Prowl seemed to be in need of the insult he’d given Pacemaker so that he too would shut up.

 _Bluestreak is shoving away his emotions as Prowl often does. Where do his emotions go when he shoves them away? To Prowl. Twins get sick when they shut each other out…and I’ve heard rumor of twins switching personalities when they’re sick!_ Very _intriguing!_

Now that he had a good sense of the Praxians’ behavior to give to Jazz so he could adjust his ROCK accordingly, Mirage just had to find a way out of here.


	7. Chapter 7

“Ratchet! What are you doing here?” Pacemaker asked in surprise as Ratchet strode through the med bay, shoving tools into a medical kit as he went.

“Are you unhappy to see me, Pacemaker?” Ratchet shot back with confidence he didn’t feel. The back of his processor was shrieking with guilt and worry while the forefront listed tools he might need for a variety of ailments if suffered by the Prime.

_He wouldn’t drink his energon, Ironhide said. Depletion? High grade’s best._

_Helm-aches…Where are the painkiller chips—? Ah, wait, there. And if he’s reading the same sentence repeatedly, his optics are hurting; they may need to be recalibrated. Optical lubricant, check. Expired? No, still good._

_But despite the helm-aches, which usually wear a Bot out, he’s been restless. Why is he restless? It doesn’t fit with the rest of his symptoms…Maybe he’s recharge-deprived. That can cause a poor attention span and hyperactivity._

“I’m not unhappy to see you,” Pacemaker protested. “I just…thought you were adamant that you were taking some time off. Y’know, because of your—”

“Have you been rearranging my equipment?!” Ratchet demanded as he stripped one of the medical berths of its thermal tarps and stuffed it into the med kit.

Pacemaker was looking more and more flustered by the nanoklik. “Well, I—”

“Obviously you have. Where are the circuit speeders?”

“What do you need those for?” Pacemaker gasped, taking a few steps back and eyeing Ratchet with a bit more concern.

Ratchet noticed the look and glowered back. “Oh, for Primus’ sake! _No_ , I am not going to use them to wire myself! If I wanted to, I would use any number of other things—Syk, Steam, Static, Regolith—all of which are far more capable of the task! You know as well as I that even electro-magnetics are in this room to be used at a medic’s disposal!”

This didn’t seem to reassure Pacemaker much, but Ratchet wasn’t sure he could care any less. When Pacemaker decided it was safest not to answer the question and fiddle with a wrench, Ratchet leaned forward and twisted it out of his hand, letting out a pained hiss and tossing it into the folds of the wadded tarp. This refused to let the medical kit snap shut, which left Ratchet juggling things that tried to slip out, but he focused most of his attention on the other CMO, who stared forlornly at the edge of the wrench peeking out.

“I needed that,” Ratchet declared. “But I _don’t_ need a node-trip. You think I’m assembling this medical kit for my own amusement? So I’ll ask again: _where_ are the speeders?”

Once those were safely (or not so safely) shoved into the medical kit, Ratchet raced down the hall, dodging mechs and femmes and their blasted recovery wishes. His mission was Optimus and that was far more important that his own well-being.

 _How could you have forgotten that?_ Ratchet berated himself as he raised a hand to knock, reconsidered and kicked the office door instead of using his hand. The movement still rattled him and he peeked into the kit, taking one of the painkiller chips for himself.

 _Wooo…hypocrite,_ he thought as he felt the rush blunt his fire-edged circuits. _But if it gets me through this without my hands locking up…_ Not waiting for the door to be answered, he punched in a medical-override unlock. The door opened and he went in…freezing after three steps.

The first thing he had seen was an empty desk, but what he identified now was energon pooling from _behind_ the desk—a lot of it.

Ratchet had been afraid many times in these past few centuries, but what gripped him now was terror at its purest. He wanted to speak, to run, but his vocalizer had closed and so had the door behind him. Even if it hadn’t, he couldn’t have moved anyway.

A silhouette flashed in his peripheral vision at the adjoining wash room and it was then that Ratchet reacted, dropping the medical case and transforming his hands into blades with a scream that was only partially physical agony. He didn’t care that he was half-blind with grief and that if Optimus had been taken down, he was outmatched. All he knew was that someone had harmed his best friend and even if he died first, they were going to _suffer_ _bitterly_ for it.

The perpetrator didn’t react with the base instinct of fleeing; instead he activated his own weapon. Their blades met with a clang, screeching horribly as they surged against each other, but Ratchet added his second, pushing as hard as he could against the single but much longer sword.

“Ratchet! Stand down!” Optimus’ voice was a harsh rumble that broke through all of Ratchet’s assumptions. Ratchet stumbled back, unable to keep his hands in weapon form any longer. He pressed them together, let out a shuddering ex-vent and lowered his gaze to the floor, specifically the energon which had now reached Optimus’ feet.

Optimus realized what he was thinking and stepped away from the puddle. “I am fine, old friend. I spilled my energon cube and went to the wash room for a cleaning device,” he explained comfortingly, coming closer to show Ratchet the shammy he’d retrieved. “I’m fine.”

Ratchet batted the shammy away and barked, “No, you’re not! Sit!” With this command he maneuvered Optimus into the chair opposite the desk and collected his medical tools from the floor, beginning a very thorough examination.

“Ratchet, this is unnecessary,” Optimus stated as Ratchet drew lubricant into a dropper and tilted his chin back.

“Shush! You don’t get to talk,” Ratchet informed him as he somewhat vehemently recalibrated the Prime’s optics. With every drop, Ratchet reminded himself: Optimus was alive. He was safe.

“And why are you restricting me this way?” Optimus asked, apparently wanting to push Ratchet’s limits of patience. Optimus’ optics gave off refreshed blue light for which Ratchet thanked Primus—at least until he saw the amusement there.

“Because you are a patient who has been neglecting himself and if you don’t let me focus on my work, I will tranquilize you with an Alpha Particle painkiller chip,” Ratchet threatened. To his dismay and fury, a hint of a smile now lurked around Optimus’ mouth and he stepped back, hefting up the wrench he’d taken from Pacemaker.

“There are _other means_ of inducing stasis, Optimus Prime!”

The smile no longer lurked, it now shone on Optimus’ face as he straightened in his chair. They both knew it was an unfounded intimidation.

Confusion was now battling for Ratchet’s attention. Finally he lowered the wrench and muttered, “ _What_ , Optimus? Why are you doing that?”

“I trust Ironhide dramatized my condition to suit his purposes?”

Ratchet blinked a few times, processing the question and replaying the weapon specialist’s visit behind his optics. He very nearly cursed and then decided not to give Optimus the further satisfaction.

“Things were brought to my attention,” he groused, “and rightly so. You’re low on everything but obstinacy at the moment.”

“Obstinacy and affection, both I am quite willing to give to you,” Optimus corrected warmly. Ratchet scowled in response, refusing to be lulled by the words.

“Humph! Puh- _lease_!”

“I am not functioning at any sort of nadir standard, Ratchet. I responded perfectly well to your attack, did I not?”

“Firstly, you would have thought of using your second hand to overpower me, yet this time you didn’t,” Ratchet pointed out triumphantly. “And secondly, you spilled your energon, meaning you haven’t refueled properly. You of all Bots should know better than to drive yourself into the ground! I’ve brought high-grade and if you refuse it I will use this energon infuser I have here to _force_ it into your veins. You won’t enjoy the process, I can assure you.”

Optimus considered. Ratchet could see the sincerity in his tone of voice being measured in Optimus’ CPU, gauging if he truly did plan on enacting those words.

“High-grade is appealing,” Optimus consented at last. “Would you care to share it with me?”

Ratchet rewarded the offer with his first smile of the day.

—

Prowl had been taken over by Bluestreak’s personality, but the bond went both ways. Bluestreak was feeling…emotionless. He felt _logic_. It’s what gave him the determination to march down the halls of the base, ready to face what had happened.

Not with Prowl, of course. Neither of them wanted to be the first to give way to the churning ache for reunion with their other half. No, no, no, _she_ was the very spark of the problem. Cut the problem off at the source and everything would go back to normal.

Backscatter was leaning against the wall opposite the wall-fixture berth. She spotted him immediately at the door and her eyebrows rose.

“Well, hello,” she greeted, her smile all too pleasant for Bluestreak’s liking. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see you, Bluestreak.”

“It’s Lance Corporal to you,” Bluestreak replied stiffly, folding his arms as he planted himself before her. “I’m here to conduct an interrogation.”

“Doesn’t the sub-commander or the commander himself usually do that?” Backscatter asked casually.

Sensing the bait and rejecting it, Bluestreak snarked, “I’m not sure. Do you hold one of those roles? You performed Ratchet’s interrogation after all.”

“Simulated,” Backscatter reminded him.

“It seemed pretty real when you began torturing him,” Bluestreak countered. “And when the doors were sealed with the override coding changed. How did you do that, by the way?”

Backscatter’s doorwings thunked dully against the wall behind her in frustration. “I didn’t do that, Bluestreak. It must have been one of your glitches, alright?”

“No, it’s not. If it was supposedly one of ‘our’ glitches, why did you take advantage of it? Why didn’t you stop the simulation? Why did you allow Optimus to order Ironhide into action against you?” When he received no answer, Bluestreak strode closer to the energy bars, hissing, “The explosion could have caused you harm unless you knew to get far enough away from it. So you must have known about the glitch, meaning you had a part in putting it there. So why? What did you think you could accomplish? And why Ratchet of all mechs?”

“If you keep asking questions before I answer the previous ones, we’ll be here all day reiterating,” Backscatter pointed out, a silent laugh flickering across her features. “Correction: _I_ won’t be here. My commander is posting my bail.”

“Then you won’t mind answering me, since you plan on walking anyway,” Bluestreak concluded. “Why Ratchet? You could have asked any of your adoring students to give you the coordinates. Why pry it out of one of the most steadfast officers?”

Backscatter shrugged. “My students know my methods; the medic may be a Golden Age Bot, but to me, he’s new-mint. He was amusing.”

To cover his own discomfort, Bluestreak glowered and commented, “Slag, I was actually hoping you _weren’t_ a sadist.”

“Why?” Backscatter asked, overly interested. “You don’t want me to walk; you obviously don’t care about me. And Ratchet, well, he’s not exactly easy to care _about_. Let’s be honest: the only real, close friend he has is the only mech in this entire base with the patience for him.” She paused, her optics sparking. “Ooh…that last question though. ‘Why pry it out of one of the most steadfast officers?’ I’m not entirely sure either of us is talking about Ratchet anymore.”

Bluestreak tapped further into the Prowl logic he was relying on, drawing pride from the fact that he was able to remain completely silent despite her attempt to antagonize him. He considered _her_ instead. The crime had only been committed yesterday, but it felt like a diun had passed with her in this cell and him without answers.

Who was she?

Bluestreak remembered how different she was when they were younger, growing up together in Praxus. Quickly he stifled the pain of pondering Praxus and focused on Backscatter. She had always enjoyed Prowl’s company more than his, thinking of him as sort of the ‘whiny baby brother’. He was the younger of the twins and took advantage of the time he had as a sparkling, while Prowl seemed intent on growing up. To Bluestreak’s distress, he had never seen Prowl stand up for him with Backscatter, while Bluestreak himself was an outwardly protective twin. Occasionally protectiveness soured into jealousy and paranoia; there had been one day in particular, (aided by a grade of energon that Backscatter insisted he was too ‘young’ to be drinking, even though he was the same age as Prowl) that he’d finally burst.

“You don’t love me anymore, do you, Prowl?”

For the first time in joors, Prowl had looked up from his reading, wisely knowing to give Bluestreak his full attention. “What are you talking about? Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”

“A valid one,” Bluestreak cried. “You never stay at home anymore and the only messages you send are to tell me that you’re going to be late for recharge! I haven’t recharged properly in quintuns because you’re not here with me, by the way, but that’s not even what I care about! You seem…close with your friends and your teachers recently. Closer than before.”

“I have…more outside responsibilities now, meaning sometimes I can’t be here,” Prowl said cautiously. That pause made Bluestreak’s half-spark twist.

“Really? Oh, well, if only I hadn’t figured that out already, I might have taken it as an answer. I’m losing you, Prowl, and it’s my fault. I—I feel like I’m not a part of you anymore! You’re replacing me!”

To a pair of twins, it was one of the most serious allegations possible. Prowl fairly threw aside his data pad and stood, grasping Bluestreak’s trembling shoulders. “I’m not sure why, Bluestreak, but you’re not thinking clearly. Listen to me, please,” he pleaded. “I’m not replacing you. Nothing can replace you.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not. The reason I’m gone so often? Our creators want me to be a law officer! It interests me, but it requires a lot of study and I can’t do it alone. It doesn’t hold any interest to you—”

“It does because it’s what _you’re_ doing! What you’re doing without me.” Bluestreak glared at Prowl’s audacity, searching his face and still not finding what he hoped for. He knew the high-grade was messing with his processor—and the spark bond—but it just fed his ideas.

“Do you think I _want_ to be incomplete? Separated from my other half for a time I can’t even track until I drag myself back here?” Prowl demanded. “Sometimes I hope you won’t listen to me and you’ll wait for me to get home, like you did when we were little.”

“If you don’t want to be separate, why do you keep choosing it over me? Why do you keep choosing other people over me?!” Bluestreak’s mouth was running away from him now. “When we’re with friends— _your_ friends, since I don’t have any—I can never get your attention! You’re always talking about things I know nothing about and since I know nothing about it, I try to redirect you and then your friends just think I’m being rude and ignorant. Then they complain, slur me _to my face_ , and you just sit there! You never stand up for me!”

“I _always_ stand up for you,” Prowl snarled, hauling Bluestreak against his chest. “I always stand up for you. Every time, Bluestreak. I wait until you leave so you won’t have to hear the things I threaten to do to them if they breathe another word about you!”

“Even to…to Backscatter?” Bluestreak stuttered. He felt Prowl’s smile against his audial.

“Yes, even to her. And she admires me for it. My friends may all have blurred together, but do you remember the last time she in particular insulted you?”

Bluestreak couldn’t quite recall, so he said nothing.

“I thought so,” Prowl whispered. “I’m not forgetting you, Bluestreak. To be honest, I’m constantly thinking about you. I wondered about this silent treatment you’ve been giving me. And why you’ve been drinking so often.”

“We both know I’m old enough,” Bluestreak warned.

Prowl’s smile widened. “Yes, you are, brother.”

“And that probably means I’m old enough to hear some of the death threats you’ve created for my haters,” Bluestreak hinted. “So if I’m old enough for both…”

“One of my tests is at the end of the quintun. I still need to study; I might not want to suffer a hangover tomorrow,” Prowl admitted.

“It’ll give you an excuse to stay home,” Bluestreak insisted.

“I don’t need excuses.”

“Glad we agree.”

Once an understanding had been reached, Backscatter had been far more pleasant to him as they’d grown up, Bluestreak recalled. She had actually been one of the people he had tried turning to after the fall of Praxus, though oftentimes he couldn’t get ahold of her.

Had she been busy making plans with the Decepticons? This thought brought his helm up.

“Backscatter. I don’t know what you were trying to accomplish with Prowl, whether you meant to seduce him for a plot or were truly interested,” he murmured, easily slipping into ominous tones Prowl had demonstrated during their drinking stint those centuries ago. “But just know that when you walk free, you won’t really. I’m going to be watching you. These are my ground rules: I won’t let you near him unless he _and_ Prime both give explicit orders in _writing_ in your favor. I’ll force Ironhide to make sure that when you’re near him, Prowl has a weapon at all times. If you show signs of needing it, I’ll have someone pin you down and search you for concealed arms. I might do it even if you don’t show signs of needing it, if it fancies me. And if you do something to hurt him, I’ll end you.”

Bluestreak watched Backscatter swallow her apprehension, but it wasn’t as satisfying when she responded. “How will you ensure all of this when you’re on the outs with Prowl because of me?”

Bluestreak left her to ponder her own question, passing through the custody suite door without noticing the mech pressing himself into the corner so he wouldn't be seen, one who had used it to enter the room not too long before.


	8. Chapter 8

Drumming his fingers anxiously against the edge of his desk, Red Alert recalibrated his optics for the third time as he stared at Mirage’s frame, fiercely glowing due to the spectrum tech in his security cameras. He didn’t pay Prowl much mind, completely focused on Mirage and his problem: how was he going to get past Prowl and out of the office without alerting him to his presence?

The SIC had finally stilled from his vigorous pacing and talking routine, sitting on the edge of his desk once more, swinging his legs just a little. Mirage cautiously stepped out from the corner that he’d wedged himself into, sliding along the wall toward the door but not touching it.

 _So his back doesn’t scrape against the wall_ , Red Alert nodded approvingly. He’d performed this move sometimes when he went into personal surveillance situations. If only Mirage knew how many times the subject of his in-person surveillance had been _him_!

Red Alert wasn’t entirely sure what to think of Mirage. There was a lot of talk around the base that he was a bit of an elitist. Those types always made Red Alert’s circuits fire up. As a sparkling, he’d been extremely perceptive, but paranoid because of it—even more so than he was today. Most wouldn’t believe it, but it was true, and so many times he’d been ostracized because of it that anyone who even remotely resembled his sparklinghood tormentors was promptly rejected. Mirage was still under evaluation as to whether or not he was worth Red’s time.

This situation, however, was quite entertaining and might just provide Red with a solid opinion of the Special Ops. Towersmech. If he failed this, who knew what Red Alert, as chief of security, might need to do to him?

Mirage had stopped about halfway to the door, studying the air vent covering above him.

“That’s an amateur idea,” Red Alert told the screen. “I admire how you managed to get across the steel floor without too much noise, but the clanking you’ll make trying to jump will surely get you caught.” He couldn’t help but chuckle as Mirage seemed to realize the same thing, glancing down at the metal floor and mouthing something in frustration.

“Ooh, what a word for a Towersmech!” Red tsked, startling as the door to his own room slid open.

“Hey, what’re ya watchin’, Red?”

Red Alert twirled around so the back of his chair was blocking the view of the screen. “Nothing, Inferno, absolutely nothing.” _Blast, I was so wrapped up in that one camera that I wasn’t watching the others!_

Inferno raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Really, Red. You’re doin’ that face again.”

“Which one?” Red Alert tried to edit his look for innocence, knowing exactly which face he was making.

“The one ya make when somethin’ is wrong,” Inferno proclaimed. “And you’re tryin’ to hide the screen from me.” Smiling a little, Inferno simply turned his helm and found another screen to the left showing a different angle, out of Red’s immediate reach. “Hey…is that Raj? You finally finished the spec tech!”

“Keep your voice down,” Red Alert pleaded.

“The doors’re closed,” Inferno answered half-mindedly, leaning closer to the screen. “That office looks familiar—” Inferno’s optics narrowed. “Who’s in there with—?”

Leaping out of his chair so quickly that it flew backward on its wheels, Red Alert maneuvered himself between Inferno and the video feed. “Ahh, Inferno, what are you doing here?” he asked, tactfully trying to nudge Inferno back a few steps.

“Just wanted to say hello,” Inferno protested, stubbornly not moving an inch. “You didn’t meet up with me for energon this mornin’ like ya said ya would.”

“Apologies,” Red Alert burst out. “Is that what you came for, an apology? You got one. Inferno, I’m really quite busy—”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” Inferno reassured him. “I can see you’ve gotta get back to it.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Red Alert concluded, sinking back into his chair and returning his attention to the screen. Mirage was at the door now, studying it and the control panel beside it. However, Red Alert’s gaze drifted when he sensed Inferno leaning over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Red asked suspiciously. Inferno took a healthy step back, holding up his hands placatingly.

“Now, Red, I know ya watch Prowl just like you do other officers. That’s…natural, right?”

“Mm-hm,” Red Alert agreed, nodding once as he glanced back. Mirage was pacing softly back and forth in front of the door.

“But Raj, well, he’s different. You just got this tech so we can keep an eye on him for security reasons and that’s a good thing, yeh? But we shouldn’t watch him just because we can. He deserves his right to privacy. Whatever he’s doin’ in Prowl’s office, he’s gotta have a good reason for it…but it may be a private one.”

“Well, Inferno, he’s no longer in Prowl’s office,” Red Alert said, “He’s gotten out undetected.”

“How’d he _do_ that?” Inferno demanded. Red Alert allowed him to look over his shoulder now at Mirage, uncloaking on the exterior of Prowl’s office.

“He knocked from the inside and Prowl, being a courteous mech, opened the door for him,” Red Alert explained, unable to keep a touch of admiration out of his voice. His judgment of Mirage had definitely turned toward the better. The question now became where Mirage would go with the information he’d just procured from Prowl’s ranting?

Almost before he could finish this thought, Mirage took off down the hall after a mech just passing. With wide optics Red Alert refocused his attention on another camera and saw, to his disbelief, that Mirage was going to Fishtail.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered, surprised to realize he actually felt somewhat disappointed by this turn of events. “But did _he_ know? Did Fishtail know that Mirage was in the room? That long burst of static I received when they were with Backscatter…Was that so the _three_ of them could speak freely?”

“I didn’t know he knew Fishtail,” Inferno commented, reminding Red Alert of his presence. “Weren’t they at the same base together for a while?”

“Yes,” Red Alert gasped. “ _Yes!_ That’s when they turned him!”

“What?” Inferno planted his hands on his hips, utterly perplexed. “What’re ya talkin’ about, Red? Who turned who?”

“An excellent question. Mirage could have been the catalyst instead of the other way around! Maybe _he_ turned _them_! But no, hush now, Inferno,” Red Alert concluded, optics secured to the screen. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”

“It’s just small talk,” Inferno told him, and indeed it was. Fishtail greeted Mirage…pleasantly, to say the least; he nearly took him into the wall with his embrace. Mirage seemed a bit more hesitant, but from what Red could tell, that was his way. After Fishtail released him, Mirage invited him for some energon. Though Fishtail declined, explaining that he had a meeting scheduled with Optimus, he and Mirage continued to walk together, chatting about their past time together.

“What, we’re just watchin’ him wander the halls now? What’s goin’ on? Why’re you talkin’ about people bein’ turned and such, Red? Look, it seems like you’ve done a successful trial for the tech. We don’t want to abuse power, right?”

“Of course not,” Red Alert agreed. “Which is more than I can say for either Fishtail or Mirage. Whichever one of them turned the other—perhaps Backscatter converted the both of them!—this small talk of theirs could be some kind of code. I need to decipher—wait, where is Mirage going?”

The Special Ops. mech had bid Fishtail farewell, now quickening his pace like someone with another mission. It was only until the last few kliks that Red Alert realized where Mirage was.

“Oh!” Inferno took on Red Alert’s role, sliding in front of whichever screens were nearby. “Hi there, Raj! What have you been up to? Had any company today? Seen any friends?”

Mirage frowned, troubled by Inferno’s odd behavior, but apparently not enough to answer the questions. Focusing on Red Alert, he announced, “I have some information which greatly affects the security of all in this base.”

Red Alert struggled to maintain an unashamed, unsuspicious expression. “Do tell.”

Again Mirage frowned at Inferno, but there was more concern than confusion in his optics now. “I would…prefer it if we were alone.”

—

 _They seriously do need to shorten the walk from the offices_ , Jazz groused to himself as he sped down the hall away from his own. He rarely spent time there, preferring to mingle with those he commanded, but after Mirage had left him standing alone in the hallway with his hand held out like a half-clock, he hadn’t had anywhere else to go.

Jazz had never expected Inferno to arrive, grumbling that he’d been abruptly ejected from Red Alert’s camera room and asking if Mirage had the authority to order it.

“Well, did he say why he wanted you out?” Jazz inquired.

“He said it had somethin’ to do with the ‘security of all in the base’,” Inferno complained. “While meanwhile I’m thinkin’: ‘Where’s the fire? Couldn’t I be of some help?’ No, apparently not.”

Suspicions confirmed, Jazz leapt upright. “Stay here, okay? I’ll handle the Red-n’-Raj situation, but I might call for you.”

Inferno was startled, but nodded consent. It gave Jazz motivation as he skidded back into the hall and took off at impressive speed, hailing a certain someone on his comm. link to join him in Red Alert’s camera room.

Red Alert and Mirage both recoiled when Jazz arrived with Fishtail.

“What are you doing with him?” Red Alert burst out, just as Mirage cried, “I was going to come to you immediately afterward!”

“Yeh, yeh, just tell me now,” Jazz ordered. “All of it. And you,” he nudged Fishtail’s arm with his own, “feel free to join the dance any time.”

To Red Alert’s visible relief, Fishtail reacted with pure, honest shock when Mirage admitted he’d been in the custody suite during the conversation with Backscatter.

“I wasn’t sure what to think when you garbled the security camera’s audio,” Mirage sighed, glancing at Red Alert’s sharp gaze and adding, “He simply wanted her to speak freely and comfortably. She wouldn’t have if I had revealed myself!.”

“You were already revealed to _me_ ,” Red Alert informed him. “But I do want to see that remote.”

Fishtail reluctantly handed it over. “It’s like Mirage said: I didn’t want her to withhold information because we were being watched,” he admitted. “I apologize. If you want to charge me with something…”

“I actually wanted to charge Mirage for not reporting a crime,” Red Alert declared, causing the Towersmech to bristle. “I don’t know why you were there, but in refusing to act, you could have cost us. For all you knew, it could have been an EMP!”

Jazz shook his helm briefly. “I can vouch for Raj. He was there on my orders to gather information covertly and if he’d intervened, he would’ve failed the mission. There’s a risk of cost in every Special Ops. mission. It’s okay, Red.”

By the time Mirage and Fishtail finished telling what had been said, however, it was apparent to Jazz that the situation obviously wasn’t okay. All of his hopes of impartiality between Prowl and Backscatter were now crashing down.

“Fishy, you said you’ve got a meeting with Optimus?”

“Yes, so that I can figure out what to do about Backscatter’s situation with Ratchet,” Fishtail confirmed.

“Righto.” Summoning the call sign he’d kept at hand, Jazz dialed. “Inferno? Ya know how ya said you wanted to help? Actually, yes, you can, my mech. I’ve got somethin’ I need help with. Round up all the officers: Blaster, Ironhide, Ratchet, Prowl, Prime, the whole nine yards o’ this race track. Tell ’em it’s an emergency meeting on my orders!” When he hung up, Jazz sent a stern glance around the room. “Red, you’re comin’ with me. You too, Fishtail. Your meetin’ with Prime just became a briefin’ o’ the officers.”

Jazz felt Fishtail cringe a little when they entered the meeting room specifically chosen for emergency meetings. All but two of the seats were taken by the icons of the war and Jazz was certain Fishtail was thinking he didn’t belong in a room with all of them. To put him a bit more at ease, Jazz motioned toward one of the two empty seats.

“You sit there, Fishy; it’ll help you make yourself comfortable,” he urged in a whisper.

Fishtail sent him an incredulous glance and didn’t move. Surprised and just a tiny bit annoyed, Jazz pointed more insistently. Finally Fishtail trudged over, sinking down but staying to the right side of the cushion.

 _What’s with him?_ Jazz wondered. Out of courtesy, he had offered Fishtail his own chair. As the third-in-command, he had a seat situated in a nice place…immediately next to Prowl.

 _Oh. Oops_.

Once Red Alert was seated, Jazz stood at the end of the table, far across from Prime. “So…I’ll get right to the point,” Jazz began, glancing at each of the officers in turn, though his gaze lingered on Prowl for just a klik longer than the rest. “The prisoner—we all know who that is—she’s been…involvin’ herself…”

He stopped. The next three words out of his mouth could change the command structure permanently. To Jazz’s shock, a selfish motive leaked into his processor. If Prowl was charged about his involvement with Backscatter, he might become second-in-command. From the expression on Prowl’s face, teetering dangerously on vulnerability, Jazz held complete control right now and, depending on what he said, could from here on out.

Leaning his hands on the end of the table, Jazz shuttered his optics momentarily, hot shame crashing into him. _You lost your groove_ , he rebuked himself. _The ROCK is about_ rescuin’ _him, not replacin’ him_.

“Continue, Jazz,” Optimus urged. His voice cleared Jazz’s thoughts and the saboteur straightened, venting carefully to regain himself.

“She’s been involvin’ herself with the investigation,” Jazz finally finished. “Manipulatin’ the study of her conduct with the med-mech here. But Fishtail here and I have an agreement about her disciplinary action: she won’t conduct any teaching scenarios or tests as long as the Call-Ons stay here with us. She’ll still be in charge o’ trackin’ her students’ scores and progress, o’course, so they won’t get nervy about what we’re doin’ with her.”

“And once their dance class is finished?” Blaster prompted. Jazz couldn’t help but grin at their shared terminology.

“Once they can waltz with the Cons like the best of us, Scat will…well, _scat_. She’ll be extradited and restricted to her home base. She won’t interact with _any_ Cons—prisoners or no—until she’s been retrained and recertified under Fishtail’s direct supervision. Also, Fishtail’s SIC, Blowtorch is gonna watch her with his one good optic when she is allowed to perform interrogations again. That’s kinda her ‘probationary period’. Red Alert and I’ll deal with the breaches of our own security that allowed her the opportunity to manipulate things. Prime, you’ll have my report on all o’ this as soon as Red and I figure out how some of the tech used got through our firewalls and stuff.”

“Did _she_ use the tech? I mean, her herself?” Ironhide asked.

Another split second decision that could send a command officer down the tubes. Jazz glanced at Fishtail and then Red Alert. _Better to save another tailpipe than lose any_ , he decided reluctantly.

“We’re pretty sure it was planted somewhere else. That’s all I got.” Despite his noncommittal shrug, Jazz’s tone was clipped. He knew they all had questions, but he couldn’t answer them without implicating _someone_ : Prowl, Fishtail, or even Red Alert.

 _There’s a risk of cost in every Special Ops. mission. I don’t wanna take that risk today_.

Apparently Ratchet didn’t care about Jazz’s lack of further information. He started to raise a hand, ready and willing to inquire, when Optimus reached over and rested his own on top of it, stilling it mid-air. Ratchet largely flinched, his cooling fans stirring in his embarrassment and his optics flickering between Optimus’ face and the tabletop. Nonetheless he swallowed his words.

“Thank you for informing us of this new development, Jazz,” Optimus filled the hush. “Dismissed.”

As soon as he heard the word, Jazz went briskly for the door, but somehow the second-in-command still caught up with him.

“Jazz,” Prowl whispered. “I—I can’t tell you—”

“Nope, you can’t,” Jazz agreed tersely at the same volume. “You can _show_ me. You wanna make this up to me? Make it up with your brother.”


	9. Chapter 9

Jawsnap leaned forward in Red Alert’s chair, keeping a watchful optic and audial on the security cameras documenting the emergency briefing. He was quite flattered that the chief of security had asked him to watch the cameras; now he felt an indescribable gratitude as well.

Ever since he’d witnessed everything that had happened in the interrogation, Jawsnap had been overwrought with questions. He’d seen the beginning of the situation and now, thanks to this meeting, he was seeing the end. At least there would be some closure for everyone, including him, even if they didn’t know what had happened during the in-between time.

Finally the meeting ended and Jawsnap got to his feet with a deep, settling sigh. Red Alert would hurry here to take over his regular duties and Jawsnap would be left to conduct his own. He still needed to figure out how the codes to the interrogation room door had been changed…

Although, maybe this remote Red Alert had left on the desk had something to do with it. Jawsnap picked it up, peering at it with interest. It looked like some kind of foreign data blocker.

If he hurried, he could inspect it with his own tools before Red Alert realized it was missing. And if Red Alert ended up _wanting_ him to inspect it, better sooner than later, correct? Maybe Red wouldn’t see it as stealing, but as taking initiative. Jawsnap greatly admired the security chief and knew initiative would certainly gain him some favor. Leaping to his feet, he slipped from the camera room.

As soon as he entered the wide hallway, Jawsnap found himself being seized and thrown against the opposite wall.

“What—?!” he gasped as he recognized his attacker. “What are you—?!”

“I can’t find any of the officers!” Pacemaker hissed. “Prime, Ratchet, Prowl, they’re all missing! I have vital information regarding Backscatter and I can’t find anyone!”

“Vital information?” Jawsnap echoed in bewilderment. “What do you mean? What information and how vital is it?”

Pacemaker jerked his helm back and forth, searching for any eavesdroppers. When he found none, he leaned further into Jawsnap’s face and said anyway, “Not out here in the hallway. C’mon.” Jawsnap didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, as the Call-On CMO clung to his wrist and fairly dragged him down the hall, making brief excuses to passerby who looked curious about where they were going.

When they finally reached an empty conference room, Pacemaker locked the door. “Can you silence the audio on the security cam?”

“I don’t have the authorization,” Jawsnap answered worriedly. “But…wait a nanoklik.” Turning his back to the security camera, he fished out the remote data blocker and pushed the button. “I _think_ that did something,” he concluded doubtfully.

“Okay, well, even if it didn’t, I was going to tell the chain of command anyway,” Pacemaker brushed it off. “But this is what it is: Backscatter… _She_ was involved with one of the officers!”

Jawsnap lived up to his name—his jaw fell open for a long series of kliks before he demanded in a harsh, panicked whisper, “How do you know?! How did you find out?!”

“I was going into the custody suite to give Backscatter her physical examination, the one that would hopefully confirm Ironhide and his detail didn’t give her a tune-up during the arrest—”

“They didn’t,” Jawsnap protested. “I saw the arrest.”

“Yes, I know, but the examination is mandatory. Anyway, as soon as the door opened, I saw Bluestreak of all people in front of Backscatter’s cell,” Pacemaker continued, pacing back and forth anxiously. “He was interrogating her, asking questions about Ratchet and the coordinates and why she tried to get them from him so violently, but then she said something to the likes of, ‘I don’t think we’re talking about Ratchet anymore’. I was somewhat confused.”

“Yes, and _I’m_ somewhat confused!” Jawsnap agreed, throwing up his hands. “What does any of that have to do with…uh, romance?” His optics went huge and his jaw dropped another time. “Wait. Ugh…did she…Ratchet is Optimus Prime’s best friend. _He_ wouldn’t…Would he? Not after what happened. Was it before? Did she and him have something before?!”

“No,” Pacemaker denied the thought, his disgust weakening into dread as he whispered, “Worse.”

Jawsnap made the connection immediately from there, but he said nothing. Saying it would make it true.

“How far ‘involved’ did she get?” he asked instead, trying to understand the ramifications. What could happen if a prisoner and an officer were involved? _Anything_.

“Not too far, but I’m fairly certain it would have progressed if they hadn’t been interrupted,” Pacemaker answered, his face screwing up. “I almost wish it had progressed, just so I would know what I was talking about.”

“Pacemaker!” Jawsnap hissed reproachfully. “Don’t even say something like that! In all literature and even in some of the entertainment pictures, when characters say something like that, it happens!”

“Well, there actually is a danger of that,” Pacemaker informed him earnestly. “Or there _was_. When Bluestreak left the suite, I still did the physical on her. I tried to act casual, like I hadn’t heard anything, and I’m pretty sure she bought it. When I was examining her spark chamber—”

“You examine spark chambers as part of a routine physical?!” Jawsnap gasped.

“You didn’t know that? I do it to make sure no _bonding_ has happened during her stay,” Pacemaker emphasized. “Anyway, when I was examining her spark chamber, I found something I didn’t recognize: a string of coding running into a translucent pack.”

“It wasn’t a pack of energon?”

“No. In fact, I’d never seen anything like it,” Pacemaker admitted. “I removed the pack and took it to study. It isn’t often that I don’t know a part of the Cybertronian anatomy, but I had to do some major digging to find out what this was. It turns out, it’s exclusive to Praxians…and so are the effects.”

“Effects?” Jawsnap echoed nervously, rubbing a hand over his face. “Pacemaker, please, you’re killing me. Just tell me straight out! What does she have?!”

“Backscatter is going through an APFC,” Pacemaker sighed. “When Praxian femmes haven’t bonded and they’re reaching a certain tipping point, it activates the Anti-Protoform Frame Change, which is the femme’s last effort to…well, mate. The codes running into that pack—and the pack itself!—they’re actually pheromones! They’re unpredictable, though—they can take the femme in either direction: aggression or adoration.”

Jawsnap mulled over the information and then prompted, “And that means…?”

Pacemaker threw his hands up. “Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“Aggression! That’s certainly how she was in the interrogation, right? You were there! If she’s a friend of Prowl’s, everything that happened would seem out of character. It was the imbalance of the APFC that sent her over the edge! And then the pheromones swung the other way, toward adoration, which explains why Prowl was attracted to her!”

Though he didn’t say anything, Jawsnap suspected there was more to the feelings than biology. Again, saying it would make it real. “Now that you removed the pack of pheromones, will she go back to normal? Whatever behavior is normal for her?”

Pacemaker appeared frozen for a nanoklik. “I, um, I’m pretty sure,” he said without confidence. When Jawsnap stared at him in disbelief, he admitted, “I wasn’t quite sure what removing the pack would do. I’d never seen it before, remember? In any case, I’m hoping to monitor her and if she has poor consequences, I’ll return it to her right away. Maybe I’ll be able to find some way to block the imbalance.”

Jawsnap nodded distantly, his CPU already drifting. “You said you wanted to tell one of the officers?”

“Yes.”

“You better take this to Ratchet.” Pacemaker put on an expression of distaste and Jawsnap urged, “Ratchet won’t need or want to excuse or forgive her, but _medically_ in his view it will make more sense of what happened to him. If he’s anything like you, he needs to know the _why_ of everything! So go on.”

Pacemaker’s face shifted to resolve and he rubbed his hands together before studying them. Jawsnap correctly assumed he was finding sympathy for Ratchet, one medic to another. Nonetheless, Jawsnap caught his arm and jerked him back before he could take off.

“Wait, wait, wait! Do _not_ tell him about Backscatter and Prowl. We might get suspended for falsely accusing interfacial harassment or something!”

“But it’s true!” Pacemaker protested. “Interfacial harassment is a complete overstatement of what was going to happen between them, but it’s still true!”

Jawsnap tilted his helm somewhat awkwardly. “Well, yes, but I—I _really_ don’t think it would be a good idea to tell one of the officers that another one of the officers was attracted to the femme who _tortured_ him. That information should be for someone more privileged!”

“Ah. Also true,” Pacemaker agreed. Jawsnap smiled encouragingly, but as soon as Pacemaker was out of sight, it faded.

“But…Optimus Prime is privileged, if not the most privileged. Who’s going to tell Optimus?” Jawsnap peered around the room, almost hoping someone else had overheard the entire conversation so the job could be delegated to them. When of course he found none, he sighed mournfully. “My _second_ conversation with the Prime is to tell him his second-in-command nearly bonded with a prisoner.” Running a hand down his face once more, he muttered, “Key word: nearly. You’ll be fine. Let’s just hope Prowl will be too.”

—

Bluestreak leaned against the wall of his quarters, struggling to regain control of his hyperventilation.

“You are catching the largest nova of all time,” he said to the empty room. “You are a glitched bit-brain who can’t do anything right and who blew the entire situation completely out of proportion, except now your brother won’t even listen to you if you try to tell him just that because you ruined everything all over again _by_ blowing it out of proportion. And you were even _trying_ to make it worse! Well, you succeeded. Primus preserve me! What was I thinking? I never should’ve…”

Pulling his arms against his chest, trying to hug away the stony feeling there, Bluestreak went over what had happened to panic him now—what _he_ had caused.

He was waiting for Jawsnap with a stack of data pads the techie had requested. He had been starting to enjoy the sensation of not feeling anything as deeply as he’d always been accustomed to. It had made it much easier to avoid dealing with his situation with Prowl. Awkwardly he rubbed his jaw where his brother had punched him. It had left a painful dent, but the physical pain had drained out of him with the emotional.

“Bluestreak?” a faint voice called from outside in the hall. Bluestreak scooped up his pads, heading for the door to meet Jawsnap halfway, when he heard another voice calling for Jawsnap.

“Wait for me, would you?” Prowl pleaded. Bluestreak heard him hurrying to catch up to the younger mech. “I need to speak with you but it’s rather difficult when speaking to your back.”

“I—I have two meetings, sir; they’re somewhat important. I need to pick up some data pads on sniper tactics in time to hand them out for the Call-Ons to study before they retire for the orn, and then the second meeting is with Optimus Prime. You _know_ I wouldn’t want to miss that one,” Jawsnap burst out, his pace quickening too.

Prowl sighed, catching hold of his arm and jerking him to a halt about a yard away from the room he’d been trying to reach. Bluestreak leaned against the doorframe, easily able to hear what was being said.

“Jawsnap, I wanted to apologize for how I treated you in my office yesterday,” Prowl admitted. “I was just…having a stressful time and I took it out on you.”

“Well, you mostly took it out on Pacemaker, sir,” Jawsnap corrected. He sounded horrified a klik later as he backpedaled, “What I mean is, sir, I didn’t feel too insulted—well, maybe a little, but I didn’t think much of—I mean—I don’t quite know what to say, sir.”

Bluestreak could sense a smile in Prowl’s voice, though it was most likely weak. “Perhaps ‘I accept your apology’ would be appropriate? Only if you do, of course. I would never want you to lie to me simply because you were afraid not accepting my apology would be insubordination.”

“Would it?” Jawsnap tried cautiously.

“Of course not!”

“Um…alright then. Yes, sir,” Jawsnap said at last. “I accept your apology.”

“Thank you,” Prowl concluded, patting Jawsnap’s arm where he’d seized it. “After everything you’ve been doing to help, there was no reason to snap at you that way, so I thought you deserved something to make up for it. If there’s a favor I can offer you…?”

“Aah…I just want what’s good for the base, sir,” Jawsnap stammered. “So maybe I could be dismissed so I can pick up those pads from Bluestreak?”

Prowl rebooted his vocalizer uneasily, his optics darting toward the open door. It was no longer open, filled with the stonily-silent frame of his brother.

Bluestreak couldn’t help but relish in Prowl’s startled expression. He could see the SIC’s battle computer trying to compensate for the disparity, wondering: How long had he been there?

Long enough, Bluestreak wanted to answer, but instead of it being audible, he opted for the more personal way. Prowl gasped softly as he felt a release in his chest. There was movement on the other side; for the first time since their fight had happened, Bluestreak spoke to him through the bond.

 _~:So_ he’s _the one who deserves an apology?:~_

Their bond was now open, but Bluestreak didn’t need to sense it; the expression on Prowl’s face was that of a mech who had been openly slapped.

All at once Bluestreak realized he had made a grave mistake. Guilt and distress were washing painfully over him: guilt for what he’d just said, and distress about reopening the bond. His own sensitivity, locked on Prowl’s side, was flowing through, returning where it belonged. But even as that happened, the detachment that had made spite so much easier was going back where _it_ belonged: into Prowl.

Bluestreak swallowed with difficulty as he watched Prowl’s expression of dismay fade into cool stoicism. Against his will Bluestreak drew closer, handing the stack of pads to Jawsnap. Jawsnap nodded his thanks before glancing between the brothers. Prowl and Bluestreak barely noticed, all too busy staring at each other without speaking but still conveying so much.

“Bluestreak,” Prowl greeted tonelessly.

Bluestreak half-considered throwing everything to the Pit and running at his brother, though to shake him or hug him he couldn’t decide. Instead he crossed his arms loosely to shield himself and prompted softly, “What?”

“Backscatter is going to be released.”

 _What have I done? Primus, I shouldn’t’ve reopened the bond. What have I done?_ This rang in Bluestreak’s processor over and over as he replied somewhat shakily, “I’m aware.”

“Before she goes about her duties, I’d like her to be brought to my office. There are things I have to discuss with her.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m telling you to escort her there,” Prowl countered, his words sharpening just a little.

Bluestreak shrugged hurriedly, hiding his worry as he slipped into naturally quick speech. “Will do, Prowl. That is an order, right? Of course it is; you’re the sub-commander, so you give orders. Of course. Um, should we make this into a race or should I let you get there first so it can seem official?”

Like clockwork, Prowl was to the point. “It _is_ official.”

“Of course it is, sorry,” Bluestreak murmured. “I’ll do it, Prowl. You can count on me. You, uh, you know that, right? That you can count on me?”

Prowl studied him for a long moment before nodding once. “I do hope I can.”

“You can,” Bluestreak assured him, his voice adopting a pleading note all on its own. “Um, Prowl, do you happen to have weapons on you at the moment?” At the very least he could keep his word to Backscatter about his ground rules.

“I always do,” Prowl answered, sounding more ominous than Bluestreak had expected.

“Okay, good. I’ll go get her now.” Bluestreak had bolted before Prowl or Jawsnap could say anything more. Now he had to go and face Backscatter again, not feeling nearly as confident as he had when he’d had Prowl’s persona keeping him straight.

When he entered the custody suite, he found Backscatter sitting in the back of her cell. She glowered spitefully out at him when he appeared and didn’t move an inch when he told her Prowl had asked for her presence in his office. Finally Bluestreak deactivated the energy bars and dragged her out, shoving a blaster into her side. He expected a jibe or two about how from Prowl’s office she was free to go or whatnot, but she didn’t seem interested in talking.

Just as well, Bluestreak decided nervously. Best get this little assignment over as soon as possible. Maybe obeying Prowl’s order promptly could be the first step in rebuilding whatever had been torn down between them—and breaking down what had been put up.


	10. Chapter 10

Prowl finally felt like himself again, thanks to Bluestreak reopening the bond. And although he could now feel—or refuse to feel—the way he wanted to, he was able to ignore the pain and indignation he’d felt when Bluestreak had said what he’d said.

Although, he _did_ deserve that apology.

Ex-venting evenly, Prowl stood from his desk, refocusing himself and his thoughts on the data pad in his hand. Jazz had done a very thorough job planning Backscatter’s probationary period. Another tingle of gratitude, though not nearly as strong as the one in the meeting, rushed through Prowl. Jazz was a loyal friend, keeping his dignity intact as he had. Somehow he needed to find a way to thank him.

_“Make it up with your brother.”_

Prowl stopped, ex-vented once more, though this time it was more like a huff. The first step toward ‘making it up’ would have been reopening their spark bond, which had made Bluestreak far too skittish to reconcile anyway.

 _“You could insist,”_ an inner voice proclaimed, a voice that sounded just like Jazz. _“The only reason he’s so skittish is cos he thinks you’re too mad to talk to him! Just decide not to belt him in the face, give him a brother hug instead, let your little half-sparkies make peace an’ get on with your lives!”_

Prowl opened his mouth to respond to the voice and then stopped himself. He would _not_ have another self-speaking episode, not with Backscatter on her way. How would that look to her? He couldn’t let her know how deeply their would-be escapade had affected him and his brother. At the very least, if he had convinced himself that he wasn’t ready to reconcile with him, he could spare a little of Bluestreak’s pride in Backscatter’s presence.

All at once Prowl realized how uncomfortable it would be to have the three of them in a room together. Hopefully Bluestreak, being skittish as he was, would leave as soon as Backscatter entered the room, feeling his mission was fulfilled.

And yet, he somehow had to prepare for the idea that Bluestreak might stay, expecting something to happen among the three of them. This notion reminded Prowl far too clearly of the long-ago orn when Bluestreak had accused him of not loving him anymore, of never standing up for him in Backscatter’s presence and the idea that he was being replaced.

How was he to defend Bluestreak now when he himself felt angry at him?

 _“Just let it go,”_ the Jazz voice advised. _“You’re pretty good at lettin’ go of your other emotions. Just let this one go too. Don’t stuff it; get rid of it.”_

Prowl touched his audial for a moment, just to be certain Jazz wasn’t actually talking to him through his comm. Even if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter: he could still hear that voice, becoming more insistent with each passing moment.

Shuffling footsteps came from behind him. “Prowl, are you in here?”

Prowl had to consciously still his spark at _that_ voice. Basest emotions could often be the most powerful. Despite everything that had happened, he still felt affection for her. Unease soon overpowered that, however, and he decided to listen to his better senses.

“Come in, Backscatter,” he requested in a calm tone, setting his data pad on top of the pile at his desk. As he straightened them out, he commented, “I must say I was expecting you a bit earlier. You prefer to be punctual, do you not? But it was Bluestreak I asked to summon you, so I assume he wanted to talk?”

“Not as much as usual, but there was some chatter, yes. Still you’ll be surprised, my friend. I actually managed the impossible,” Backscatter replied as she entered the room.

Prowl felt a sudden blast of… _something_ from his spark that prickled throughout his entire frame. He lifted a hand to his chest, touching his Autobot sigil gingerly. “Really?” he said distractedly.

“Yes,” Backscatter stated again, concluding cheerfully, “I silenced him.”

Whirling around, Prowl stopped short as he saw Backscatter a few yards away from him, Bluestreak in a secure chokehold in front of her. A blaster, one Prowl recognized as _belonging_ to Bluestreak, was poised at his helm.

That flare-up from his spark…Bluestreak had been trying to warn him.

Prowl’s optics trailed up and down his brother’s form. Bluestreak’s feet were skidding a little on the sleek floor as his knees shook. A deep wound spiraling all the way around his right thigh was streaming energon down his leg onto the floor. His left arm was pressed tightly against his dented side, but Prowl saw energon there too, spidery trails dripping from his shoulder to his loosely clenched fist. Arms weren’t supposed to twist that way…

His jaw components tightening in on each other, Prowl futilely tried to smooth out the fury that caused his EM field to billow out in murky, sinister colors. His field brushed abruptly against his brother’s and for a terrible moment Prowl felt the pain there. Bluestreak reached out for him through their spark bond, but as much as Prowl wanted the sensation after being deprived for so long, he withdrew, unwilling to let Bluestreak feel his rage. Fresh fear at being rejected coursed through to Prowl and finally, finally he sent a burst of reassurance and apology to counter it.

“I know what you’re doing,” Backscatter snapped. “Stop consoling your other half and make me an offer for his safety.”

She thought she was doing this by some textbook? She thought she could _get away_ with threatening Bluestreak’s life in front of Prowl?

That was _not_ going to be tolerated.

“P-Prowl…” Bluestreak ventured weakly, but Backscatter jammed the blaster into his throat and he said no more.

There was a tense, noiseless moment and then Prowl tilted his helm slightly, folding his arms.

Backscatter frowned and demanded, “What?”

“You certainly aren’t the femme I remember, if you take my twin as a hostage,” Prowl said, his tone acidic but unfaltering. “Likewise, you must not remember me as I am either. If you did, you would know that by the sacred name of Primus I _will_ _not_ let you harm him further.”

“You don’t have much say in the matter; I have him, I have the weapon…” Backscatter smirked. “What more do I need?”

“Foremost, a ship. Secondly, a black hole,” Prowl spat. He dropped his arms then, his hands forming twin cannons at his sides. His doorwings contracted and he took a step forward, drawing himself to his full height. “Because if you harm _my_ _brother_ and by some miracle manage to leave this room still sparked, if you manage to escape this base and by the barest of chances this planet, a black hole is the only place you might crawl to _think_ you’ll be safe from my wrath. Rest assured that I will wait outside for you—however long it takes. My sole purpose will become your extermination and I will not be so carelessly put aside from your nightmares.”

Backscatter shifted back, her blaster charging. Prowl’s echoed the sound immediately and he brought them to her chest height, steady gaze locked onto hers.

“You won’t risk it,” Backscatter scoffed nervously, using the blaster barrel to tilt Bluestreak’s chin up further. “You won’t risk hitting your brother. Worse, you could shoot me but I could pull the trigger by reflex! You’d be killing him yourself.”

“Your sense of self-preservation has always been admirable,” Prowl said in the pit of his throat. “If this weren’t true, you wouldn’t have taken him hostage in the first place. You will stand down.”

“No.” Backscatter shook her helm violently. “I’ll shoot him _and_ you and then I _will_ escape this planet!”

“Nah, I think Prowl’s right, little lady,” Ironhide said softly from behind her, pressing the barrel of his cannon against the back of her helm. “Take the easy way out.”

Backscatter pursed her lips and then sighed briefly. “Very well.” Slowly she released Bluestreak, who whirled around to gape at her. Smiling slightly, she pulled the blaster up, centered on his spark chamber, and flailed as a volley from Prowl’s weapon pierced hers. Ironhide’s cannon split her helm open not a second later and she toppled.

Bluestreak for once had no words, instead turning back, striding right for Prowl and latching onto him with his good arm, doorwings shaking with the fear and gratitude he couldn’t express. Prowl stood there awkwardly for a moment before transforming his hands and lifting them to Bluestreak’s back, stroking his doorwings carefully to calm them.

“You’re safe,” was all he said, but by the faint hum of the brothers’ shared spark, the halves separated only by armor, Ironhide realized there was more Prowl was saying to which he would never be privy.

“Primus,” he blasphemed in a pedal tone, studying the body at his feet. “She _did_ take the easy way out—the easiest.”

—

“Suicide by Bot,” Ratchet muttered, lacing his bandaged fingers together behind his back as he studied Backscatter’s prone form in Autopsy. “What’s wrong with me, Optimus? I…I should be…horrified that _any_ Cybertronian was killed, but all I can say is that I’m _glad_ she’s done and over with!”

Optimus didn’t have a response to that, seeing as he was struggling with the same feeling. Instead he said, “Jawsnap came to me and explained about the APFC.”

“And Pacemaker to me,” Ratchet agreed. “When Pacemaker removed her pheromone pack instead of letting the APFC fully take its course, Backscatter…snapped. We don’t know for certain, but we’re fairly sure she wouldn’t have been able to recover her normal state of mind or emotion.”

Optimus mulled over this information, his optics roving over the thermal tarp covering Backscatter’s body. If he were to be completely honest, he almost wished that what had happened could have been a Decepticon tripwire. This line of thinking was mostly for Pacemaker, currently wracked with guilt over what he had inadvertently done.

Earlier Optimus had found him standing in this exact spot, venting erratically, somewhat nauseously, and cupping the APFC pack in his hands.

“I did more research,” Pacemaker whispered when he had sensed Optimus’ presence. “I realized what I had done, but it was too late. I reached her too late and she was my first patient to die.”

“I wish I could have the courage to admit the same thing,” Optimus had answered solemnly. Pacemaker had looked up at him with dim, forlorn optics.

“What do you mean?”

“I…was too late to spare Ratchet, Prowl, _and_ Bluestreak harm by her hand,” Optimus said at last. “Though they weren’t all harmed the same way. But if I can, I will prevent harm from coming to _you_. I suggest you speak with Ratchet about the implications of survivor’s guilt, how to cope and then overcome it. I can assure you that he’s suffered it in the past.”

Pacemaker sighed deeply, looking tired beyond his years. Optimus often prayed for the end of the war, but again he reached out to Primus, specifically for this medic. He needed a chance to be young, to lose few and gain many.

 _Let this chance come for him_.

“Did he?” Optimus asked.

“Did he come to me, you mean?” Ratchet clarified. “Yes, he did. And together we came up with a way he felt he could make restitution to her and to himself. He’s going to discuss it with Prowl, seeing as they were…close.”

“You ought to talk to Prowl about how you accused him,” Optimus remarked lightly.

Ratchet huffed a humorless laugh. “I will, Optimus. We’ll do it at our own pace; I thought I’d best let him spend some joors with his brother before I bore down on him.”

Optimus hummed his agreement, his gaze finally shifting from the tarp to his companion. Ratchet didn’t turn to look at him, but from the way his shoulders gradually adjusted to straighter posture, he knew Optimus was analyzing him. He apparently felt comfortable with it.

“How are your hands?” Optimus asked softly, cautiously reaching for one and finding himself quite relieved when Ratchet didn’t jerk away. The medic still tensed as Optimus turned it over, studying it intently.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to prevent this,” Optimus whispered at last, using the gentlest of touches over the stained bandages.

“You couldn’t have known, old friend,” Ratchet brushed him off, carefully pulling his hand away. “No one could. I may not be able to perform surgery or disconnect and relight a spark at the moment, but I can still make some repairs. What I can’t do, others can do for me.”

“Disconnect a spark,” Optimus repeated, puzzled by this example. “ _Relight_ a spark? And whose spark would you choose to foster this way?”

“Ah…foster. Interesting choice of word, Optimus.” Ratchet said nothing more to explain; he simply gave Optimus a half-smile that suggested a secret that would remain his own until he chose.

That didn’t mean Optimus wouldn’t at least _attempt_ to coax it out of him.

“Ratchet, if you plan to adopt or are planning…something to the likes of it, I would suggest you tell me now so I can file that I am its sponsire.”

“Oh? And what makes you think I would choose you?” Ratchet teased. “Or that I would even want a sponsire for my sparkling in the first place?”

Optimus now eyed him with far more wariness. “Do you?”

“Though I do believe you would make a prime sponsire should something happen to me, I _don’t_ need that,” Ratchet assured him. “As I said before, I have no family but you.”

Warmth unfurled in Optimus’ spark and he laid a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. “Then may I suggest as a family member that you go and speak to Prowl now.”

Ratchet scowled, but it was softer than usual, as was his tone as he prompted, “Give me the order, Optimus.”

“You have your orders,” Optimus mirrored, remembering this conversation from the beginning of this ordeal.

It was obvious that Ratchet recalled it too, as he stopped at the door, turned back around and snapped a salute before departing.

—

Pacemaker made the call not too long after he himself had received it. The anxiety lodged deep in his chest, courtesy of the other side of his bond, loosened and tightened with a telling rhythm. He strode up and down the hall, projecting soothing sentiments as best he could in his own panicked state.

The next time he turned to walk back the other way, he saw Prowl standing across from him.

“The time is now?” Prowl asked even though he already knew the answer.

Pacemaker crossed the hall to him, nodding vigorously. “We already knew that using Backscatter’s APFC coding would solve her own sparking blockage, but we didn’t know it would come this soon!” Jerking his helm around, Pacemaker questioned, “Where’s Bluestreak?”

“As present as he was willing to be,” Prowl replied, gently patting his Autobot sigil and adding, “He prefers to come after the creation.”

Pacemaker’s laugh was somewhat shrill. “I should’ve known. He _is_ the younger half of you, after all.” Gasping, he leaned against the wall, ringing his hands before pressing both of them over his chest.

“You should sit,” Prowl suggested wisely, causing Pacemaker to sink down onto the floor.

“It came so soon but it’s taking so long!” he hissed. “I don’t know if I can take much more. Why didn’t they let _me_ be the chief physician for this?!”

“Even if you’re not overseeing it, Ratchet is. He’ll care for her and her creation. And to answer your question, it’s because you’re very closely related. I don’t believe you would be much help in this state,” Prowl pointed out.

“Blame it on my spastic side,” Pacemaker groaned, but almost before he had finished speaking, he went ramrod straight. “Oh…Oh! It’s done! It’s—”

The door to the soundproof room slid open and Ratchet emerged, gingerly wiping his hands on a shammy.

“How did the procedure go?” Prowl asked.

Ratchet opened his mouth to respond, but Pacemaker interrupted as he leapt to his feet. “It went well, didn’t it? I’m fairly sure it did.”

“Courtesy of your bond,” Ratchet mused.

“Mech or femme?” Pacemaker pressed.

Fortunately Ratchet sensed the healthy need to step aside beforehand. “I’ll let your brother tell you.”

“Oh, trust me, he is,” Pacemaker breathed, bolting forward into the room. “How is it? Don’t keep me in suspense; how is it?!”

Smokesweeper, sitting on the edge of the medical berth beside his sparkmate, looked up at his twin with shining optics and corrected, “You mean ‘How are _they_?’”

Pacemaker’s jaw fell open as he crept forward, peering in awe at the sparklings, cradled in synthetic bundles.

“Pacemaker…” Smokesweeper began proudly, “Meet your nephews: Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFP Sideswipe Design: [here](http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fan-Design-Prime-Sideswipe-272166261)  
> TFP Sunstreaker Design: [here](http://www.deviantart.com/art/TFP-Sunstreaker-head-design-515976521)

**Author's Note:**

> The end. I hope you enjoyed! Please comment/critique and I will love you forever! :D
> 
> Update: 12/3/15: Psssych, not QUITE the end. :D I am in the process of adding a series of side stories, based on the OCs in As We Are (Pacemaker, Fishtail, Backscatter, etcetera). Please check them out!


End file.
